Scarborough Fair
by Skitts
Summary: Riku has everything; looks, brains, friends... And the ability to talk to the dead. :au, soriku, side akuroku:
1. violets

**chapter one  
**_violets_

* * *

"How are you feeling today, Riku?" inquired large hazel eyes, round like marbles – the boy imagined using them as such and felt a shiver of sick pleasure – and smile not even beginning to stretch into the realms of plausibility.

Tifa, that was what her name was. Said so on her nametag; Tifa Lockhart, to be precise. Pretty name, pretty woman.

And Riku wanted her dead.

"Good," was the only thing Riku said in response, voice adapting a wintry tone that made Mrs (she _couldn't _be a 'Miss' with a chest like _that_, could she?) Lockhart's faux smile falter all the more.

"No… Funny turns?" she inquired sweetly, pen poised over a bright red clipboard, breath bated.

Riku toyed with the answer inside his mind.

"No," he replied after a good long pause, all the while his dexterous fingers slowly twirling coils of hair round and round like a fairground carousel.

"Are you sure?" Mrs. Lockhart pressed, clutching the garish clipboard so tightly one would've thought it had been stapled to her. And, come to think of it, Riku couldn't remember a time he'd ever seen her without it. Certainly not during any of their one-to-one counselling sessions (cause Riku was a nutjob, after all).

Two times a week, one hundred and four days a year – convert that into hours (two thousand, four hundred and ninety-six) and, well, that was a hell of a long time to wait for something besides monosyllabic answers.

That was a hell of a long time to wait for something decent to write down.

"Yes." Riku stated, full stop clearly evident at the end of that sentence; a command, more than anything. It was obvious he was ending the interrogation now. Three words and he was all talked out.

Tifa couldn't help but sigh once her patient had gone.

Clipboard on the table, hair free from her neat ponytail, fingers massaging her forehead slowly in an attempt to dispel the beginnings of a headache.

Two thousand, four hundred and ninety-six hours.

What a waste of time.

* * *

Laughter.

"Hur, hur, hur."

"Shut up."

If anything the sounds of mirth became louder still, and this time far more demented for it; high-pitched giggles that crunched like candy thunder in the otherwise desolate hallway.

Desolate hallway, white hallway - a picture hanging here and there to break up the monotony.

Riku sighed, left eye twitching somewhat. He'd seen enough white hallways to last him a lifetime. And, strangely enough, they all seemed to share at least one thing in common.

The air _always _tasted of cotton buds.

It stuck in the back of your throat, made you gag, suffocating; it _hurt _to breathe sometimes.

However, this hallway also happened to be laced with the faint aroma of flowery perfume – Mrs. Lockhart's, no doubt. She usually smelt quite pleasant, if not a tad over-bearing.

Last time – last psychiatrist – it had been sake.

Sake that clung to the walls and on his clothes and (subsequently) up Riku's nose. Auron, his name had been; red robes, one eye, mahogany table – a nice table. And there was always, always, _always _a bottle of sake set to one side of it. Generally the right, for Auron was a meticulous man who liked things to be exactly so.

Perfume was a welcome change from alcohol, at any rate.

"Heh. You really fooled her," the female voice said, occasionally punctured by a handful of throwaway giggles, raw and gritty like sawdust. "Gawd, that stupid bitch must be tearing her hair out by now."

"I thought I told you to _shut up_," Riku murmured, attempting to be discreet; back turning slowly as if to examine one of the pictures on the walls. Mrs Lockhart, it was, although slightly younger. Her smile was wider and far more genuine. "You _know _there are cameras in here."

"Oops?" the female asked, a snide grin apparent in her voice.

_She_ was enjoying herself.

Riku was not.

Without another word, the boy spun a neat one hundred and eighty in his trainers, soles not even squeaking as he made his way to the door.

Freedom.

It was a temptation, like Eve and the apple, and Riku dreamed – oh how he dreamed - of the outside world; that busy metropolis of high rise buildings and dark grey sidewalk. How he dreamed – wished upon a star and all that jazz - for everything outside his white-washed chrysalis, designed for keeping sane people out and crazy people in.

(Until they turned into beautiful butterflies and flew far, far away.)

But Riku knew he could never fly away. Not while Larxene floated at his side – invisible to all but him – with her inhuman eyes and razorblade teeth.

Not while Riku had a job to do - and an _important _one at that; "missing link between all worlds, bringer of death, divine judgement and all the rest of it. Just don't get a swelled head or I'll stab you," Larxene had warned, idly filing her fingernails into points – sharp as knives, just as deadly.

Riku was not just a normal teenager, as you may have deduced already, but the full extent of just _how _'not normal' he was will become apparently shortly.

Right about five seconds after he stepped outside, actually, and became rewarded with a truly hideous sight.

Chocolate brown hair; probably neatly brushed back once upon a time, but now it only looked a wreck. Every inch of the girl looked a wreck, actually; sallow skin, sunken in around the eyes like black holes (although Riku remembered a time when they had been green), cheekbones harsh underneath a layer of paper – paper-thin. She walked with a limp, a huge gaping _wound_ in her chest where a heart should've been; only gore was exposed, ribs cracked open like a game of doctors and nurses gone horribly wrong.

And Riku was the only one who could see her-

-

-

-

-

-because she was dead.

* * *

**a.n: omg. i decided to do a proper sora/riku fic (side pairing be akuroku xD). and this story has a plot - it's gunna be epic, i promise you. also contains elements from any number of horror films where a character can converse with the dead, and also sort of with death note. but i'm not **_**trying **_**to rip off those ideas. ****for lamatikah, as most my stories are. i hope you like it D**


	2. roses

**chapter two  
**_roses_

* * *

"Hello, Tohru," Riku said, voice dull as ever. That monosyllabic speaking pattern was the one he used the most as it was straight, direct and, above all, practical.

If Riku had been one for showing facial expression he would've smirked. Really, the notion of Mrs. Lockhart being vain enough to assume he only acted like that around her was laughable.

Riku treated everybody the same.

Even the dead people.

"Tohru?" Olette frowned. Her pout was complimented with a steady gaze from those empty eyes, silently exuding an air of unabashed confidence. It was rather odd how the girl had no qualms about being so blatant, as Riku knew the previous Olette – the living Olette – would've turned bright red if caught doing such a thing. "I understand that you need to give me a false name in order to divert suspicion, but please. Don't you think you're being a tad unoriginal?"

The boy, although slightly irked, felt no need to retaliate. It _was_ true he had taken the name from a shojo manga – Selphie's favourite, actually.

Funny how the girl's helpless romanticism sometimes came in handy.

However, Riku had his doubts that the _real_ Tohru – whoever she may be - had ever been drawn in a manner to cater for Olette's new appearance. Mindless butchery had never been very popular in such stories.

"You okay?" Riku replied, cell phone pressed against his ear.

Riku was a cautious boy, maybe borderline paranoid, and had used the same trick many times before. It always came in handy when he needed to speak to his clients in crowded areas. Without a cell phone, how else was he to hold a conversation with thin air? A bystander would just assume he was talking to a person on the other end of the line and be done with it.

(Certainly not that he was communicating with his dead school friend, at any rate.

Yes, the plan was safe. Riku liked being safe. Thus, the plan - the safe plan; and logically, with such a safe plan, he too, in effect, became safe. Riku valued safety.)

"Hmn. Just fabulous," Olette said, voice laced with heavy sarcasm, eyes narrowed.

"Elaborate," Riku commanded, sighing inwardly as he did so. He'd wasted four whole syllables.

He was in mourning.

"Welll," Olette said, floating alongside the boy amicably enough. However, Riku couldn't help but notice how she twitched every time a busy pedestrian scythed through one of her sides and out the other.

"_No, no, no – I told you to take the hem of the dress_ up_ four inches…_"

"_-so then he was all like, 'no way', and I was all, 'you better believe it, brother, and then she said_…"

"_Yes, I'd like to book a hair appointment for 4 o'clock, yes, that's right, put it down under-_"

"_-and then he, you'll never get this right – oh no, not like that, you _dirty _girl! Hehehehe!"_

"-_I don't have enough _time _for this right now, Rey – you're getting some new shoes come hell or high water and…_"

"_But dah-deeee, you _promised _you'd get me an ice-cream_!"

Riku sighed and let the clamour of voices wash over him, stoic and indifferent as he usually was.

Olette, on the other hand, was twitching sporadically at irregular intervals. She even went so far as to hiss at the beribboned little child who wanted an ice-cream, continuing to whine even as she walked straight through Olette's stomach.

"My death was reported in the newspaper, right?" the girl paused, glaring at the child. "I'm sure you know about it already. Did you cry for me at all?"

"No," Riku replied absently, sneakers thumping in monotone against the grey sidewalk. Rather, when Riku had scoured the paper carefully a few days ago he had been rather irked. Not _annoyed_, per say, because Larxene had long-ago informed him that it was unusual for dead bodies to spawn ghosts, but not exactly overjoyed.

"Don't worry about it," Larxene had said smoothly, gaze lingering on the newspaper in Riku's hands; b-i-i-i-g headline, school photograph and name printed out neatly at the bottom.

_Olette DiCicco. _

"Ghosts are abnormalities in the whole reaping of humanity thing. They're not _meant _to exist. Or at least, they _wouldn't _exist if everybody in our realm did their jobs properly."

And then she had rolled her eyes.

Riku had not been so easily placated, though. He had still remained suspicious over Olette's death, for there was _still _a chance he'd run into the girl, never mind how slim it was.

And it turned out he had been right, because here Olette was, stuck in limbo between one world and the next._ Not_ sat idle on a cloud with a pretty halo and certainly not starting a new life as a hummingbird in a rainforest.

(Riku still wasn't too sure what happened beyond death. Surprisingly enough, it wasn't a thought that ever crossed his mind.)

Riku just had to assume that this time somebody in the nobody realm had not done their job properly. Maybe he could send Larxene back there with a threatening message when he got home?

Maybe something like 'Riku says you fail at life – you even fail at ending the lives of others'?

Then again, Riku liked to remain in their good books – it ensured some sort of life protection. Perhaps he'd put that idea on hold until he'd uncovered the secret of immortality.

"Riku, you sadden me," Olette said, voice adapting a teasing lilt; she obviously didn't mind _that _much. "Didn't you think my death was tragic? Being hit by a car at _my_ age and – oh, my poor heart is all a-flutter!"

"Rather," the boy agreed, ducking his head to avoid a sharp glare of sunshine. Instinctively, he made for the inner edges of the sidewalk, sanctuary found in the form of shadows. Long, thin shadows, creeping forth like the monsters in fairytales, cast by various buildings. Mostly shops.

Olette liked shopping.

"Oh, would you _look _at those shoes?" the girl hummed, head tilted. "Orange flats! I need a new pair of those."

Riku coughed slightly.

"_Used_ to need a new pair of those," Olette corrected herself, floating by humbly in Riku's wake, chastened. "I suppose you're right. They wouldn't really fit me now, anyway. Do you know I'm intangible to every object I come across? Suppose you would. Although…"

Fingers felt their way onto Riku's shoulder, intrusive and unwanted.

The boy shuddered, a strange pins and needles sensation beginning to grow beneath his skin. Pressing the phone firmly to his ear, he mumbled, "Cut it _out_."

Olette smiled wanly and extracted her fingers. "Intangible to everything except _you_, it seems. What gives?"

Riku shuddered, letting out a shaky breath. He didn't like being touched by normal people, especially not _ghosts _– sickly fingers and see-through skin seemed to leave marks that wouldn't fade, the smell of death lingering like ash.

Disgusting.

"Riku?" Olette asked again, face sunny and painted with curiosity. Well, she _had_ been the editor of the school newspaper before she died. It was in her nature to ask questions.

"Larxene told me why," Riku explained, attempting to make the conversation sound natural to anybody in the crowd who may be eavesdropping.

In fact, Riku didn't doubt that Tifa might have people tailing him. It wasn't standard procedure for physiatrists (_and_ a direct breach of his privacy) but, floundering helplessly for results as the brunette was, it seemed like the sort of thing she'd do. An act of desperation, you might say, because with this case she was getting _nowhere_.

"Who's Larxene?" Olette asked, seeming oblivious to the fashionista death god who was walking airily on Riku's left, feet pointed gracefully like a dancer's.

Larxene was disturbing in several ways, physically just as much mentally.

She was elegant, ethereally so, and glided like an apparition; a passing daydream. A princess from a fairytale, perhaps, face painfully pretty, stomach concave, arms dainty, skin cold like porcelain.

She was no doll, though.

Riku didn't even bat an eyelid at Olette's ignorance, for the situation had been explained to him many times before.

"Humans can't see us, doesn't matter if they're dead or alive – they're still _human_, either way. That's why people like you exist, to guide the souls to the afterlife because we are incapable of doing so ourselves," Larxene had explained the very first time she had met Riku all those years ago.

Seven years? Eight years?

He couldn't remember.

Instead of replying to Olette's question, his eyes instead danced across to a brightly-coloured shop sign a few yards away, creaking slightly in the breeze. Shadows dipped along the sidewalk under its gentle back-and-forth motions, shade from the vicious onslaught of sunshine that beat down so relentlessly.

Accompanying the unpleasant scent of car exhaust and pollution (things that came hand-in-hand with the world of today) was the heady aroma of freshly ground coffee beans.

Riku suddenly felt rather thirsty.

Besides, if he was really going to have this conversation with Olette – the one about the afterlife and '_what are you going to do now_?' – he'd prefer to do it at the back of shop where he keep an eye on everyone.

Anybody could be listening in the street.

"Say, Tohru. Why don't we meet up at that coffee shop off the high street – you know the one, right? Yuffie's?"

Olette sighed. "I used to love going to Yuffie's."

"You're not going to be drinking anything," Riku couldn't help but remind her, crushing any feelings of nostalgia the brunette had previously harboured quite cruelly.

'Being nice' just wasn't part of his job description. Sure, he'd had to evoke tact to win around some particularly maudlin ghosts, but when all was said and done they were still dead.

Being nice didn't change that.

Being nice didn't change a thing.

"I know. It's just… I have some fond memories of this place, okay?" Olette asked, cheeks flushing slightly.

Riku shrugged the blush off, as he did with _every _blush.

Being rather intelligent and good looking had secured him a spot in people's hearts - put him on a pedestal, so to speak. The boys looked up to him, the girls hooked up with him. And the cold attitude worked wonders, too. Foolish girls often entertained thoughts that _they _would be his saving grace, the pretty princess that saw beyond the stoic shell. Fairytale-like, they would free him of some dreadful curse and he would open his eyes – _really_ open them – and then they'd finally be together despite numerous attempts to thwart their unconventional, unconditional and unexpected love.

Too bad Riku _already_ saw them for what they really were.

Silly creatures in too-short skirts with hair brutally cut, washed, blow-dried and straightened – selfish, too, for the most part.

Olette had been different, though. Reserved and shy, a bit of a wallflower, liked writing and singing and photography.

And, Riku thought idly, she had those three friends, didn't she? He couldn't recall their names off the top of his head, but he could remember them well enough; the tubby one and bossy one and the quiet one with blond hair.

Unlike all the other girls, Riku might have grown to like Olette.

As it was, it was too late now.

"Whatever. Listen; when we get there I'll explain _everything_, right?"

"Everything?" Olette asked, voice playful. "You were always such an enigma at school, Riku, I highly doubt you'll treat me any different just because I'm dead."

She was pretty perceptive, too.

Riku wasn't sure if that interested him or annoyed him.

"Well, maybe not _everything_," Riku corrected himself, an occurrence that was rather rare. _That_ was probably why Larxene had started sniggering. "But most things, I guess."

Riku never _guessed_ anything, he was far too practical. Facts and figures were always weighed up, colour-coded and put in lines. It was just _safer_ that way, making sure to leave absolutely nothing up to luck. Riku didn't like luck.

What Olette didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

However, she had a reasonably high intelligence_ and_ knack for spotting things others didn't, due to her photography, finding beauty in places others would often overlook. As such, she may have figured this out for herself.

"I suppose most things is better than _no _things," Olette agreed, shoes scuffing through the pavement. "Okay, let's talk."

"Sure. See you there, Tohru."

And Riku turned his phone off.

His fingers didn't even tremble as he snapped the silver thing shut, returning it to the safety of his pocket. He then came to a halt outside of Yuffie's, the welcoming scent of coffee even more prominent now. It hung in the air like a veil, almost tangible – _far_ more tangible than Olette, at any rate.

Riku watched in amusement as the girl floated through the door, deciding to open it once she was inside so as not to spoil her fun. He supposed it would just be _cruel _to rob of her simple pleasures like walking through walls.

Shaking his head, the boy pushed open the door and stepped inside, some wind chimes up above heralding his arrival…

"Heyyyyy! _Riku_!"

…and a rather shrill, feminine voice.

The silver-haired boy blinked and, in those precious few milliseconds of momentary darkness, a pair of arms found their way round his middle, tight as iron girders.

Never being one for physical contact (especially not from strangers), the boy froze, brain ticking like a time bomb. Any second now he was going to _explode_, and it wasn't going to pretty.

There was that paranoia again. It rose, unbidden, like a shadowy monster with golden eyes sharp teeth that lived under the bed. Thick, stifling paranoia that made his muscles twitch and brain spin, rational thought dissipating and he _didn't _like it, he _hated_ it. Cynicism; everybody was guilty until proven innocent.

"Fine. _Don't _look happy to see me," the girl scolded.

And, now that those arms were off him, something else struck the boy, something he hadn't noticed before.

Shakily, he let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding, focusing on bits and pieces of random sound bytes – Larxene laughing, china cups clinking, Olette humming, the girl talking…

The girl's voice was sort of familiar…

"Kairi?"

The red-head grinned a typical Kairi-grin, instantly affirming all of Riku's suspicions. Her violet/blue eyes sparkled with amusement, one of her strange personality traits that Riku could never quite fathom. She was _always _happy. _Always_. Especially now, rocking back and forth on the heels of her feet, waitress outfit hanging off her skinny hips and bunching in unwieldy folds of pink material. It cut just to above her knees, one of them sporting a lovely assortment of bruises, socks rucked up around her ankles.

"Dropped a plate on myself a few days ago," the girl explained, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "I'm _such _a klutz sometimes."

"Understatement of the century," Riku snorted.

"Oi! _Meanie_," she pouted. "I haven't seen you in oh _such a long time_ and then all you do is _insult_ me! Me, your dearest, bestest, most loya-"

"Three weeks."

"Wha?" Kairi paused, blinking. She was prone to dramatic monologues, and oftentimes found herself disoriented if interrupted.

"I saw you three weeks ago, Kairi. It's not a long time."

"Ah, three weeks may seem like a relatively short amount of time to _you_, mon chéri, but to me… Oh, but me, those three weeks seemed to last decades! Seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned int-"

"Kairi! You're _not _paid to stand there and wax poetic on the customers," Yuffie grinned, a teasing smiling tugging at her lips. "If you're expecting some money at the end of the day, I think the _least_ you could do is offer this gentleman a place to sit."

Kairi paused, watching as her boss clapped her hands three times in rapid succession. "Chop, chop. No time for dilly-dallying, Kairi."

"I'm soh-ree, Yuffie," Kairi replied, voice laced with liberal helpings of sarcasm.

"You better be careful, Kai-Kai. If I didn't like you so much you'd be fired so quick you couldn't even blink, geddit?" Yuffie chastised, turning neatly on the spot to deal with another customer.

"Yeah, Yeah, _whatever_," Kairi muttered, childishly sticking her tongue out at Yuffie's back. "Well, you heard what Yuffie said! Come on, lemme find you a seat. How's 'bout one near the window? You're so pretty you could attract more customers!"

Riku couldn't help but snort at Kairi's blatant display of… Well, being Kairi. The girl had an infectious personality, despite Riku's personal philosophy of staying safe.

One more friend was more liability.

However, Kairi was different. She was the sort of person you hated initially from the get-go but, given time, her childish banter and chipper persona would often seem more uniquely adorable, rather than punch-your-face-in annoying.

And it wasn't like she was _stupid_, either. Rather, behind that absent-minded façade lay a child prodigy. She had a strange affection for language and other culture, devouring new words and phrases like M&Ms. She had been fluent in English, Italian and Spanish at the age of seven and, right now, she was currently studying French and Korean, and had told Riku she was considering Japanese as well.

That was when Riku had first started to find her interesting.

It was _not_, however, when he had first started talking to her (although 'talking' wasn't a word that really described their brief, one-sided conversations. Mainly, Kairi had said stuff and Riku hadn't listened).

Back then Kairi had been a nameless seven-year-old girl who wore dresses made of light purple and cheap strings of plastic beads. Sometimes Riku had seen her make her jewellery, sat precariously on an ugly chair outside Auron's office, threading beads methodically onto a piece of string.

Riku had wondered if she was one of patients, mentally unstable and all that jazz, but quickly dismissed the idea once she had opened her mouth.

She wasn't angry all the time, she didn't have any irrational fears, she didn't have trouble expressing her feelings, she didn't have a split personality and she _certainly_ wasn't shy or withdrawn.

She was Kairi. Just Kairi.

Just a nameless seven-year-old girl who wore dresses made of light purple and cheap strings of plastic beads.

She liked making things, she liked painting, she liked reading, she liked her family, she liked noodles, she liked her rabbit, she liked the colour pink, she liked her friends, she liked beaches, she liked Riku, she liked sunsets, she _loved_ her uncle Auron (waited for him outside his office every day after school) and she absolutely _adored _learning new languages.

"But why?" Riku had asked, confused.

As all of Auron's one-on-one sessions proved, he was anti-social. The thought of talking to other people – _stupid_ people - made his skin crawl. He wasn't even all that comfortable with talking to Kairi, sat in the waiting room for Auron to call him in so he could get the sessions over and done with (and Kairi, presumably, could go home), but her apparent interest in other cultures had piqued his interest.

"I like talking," Kairi had said, and it seemed to Riku as though Kairi liked _everything_.

"I'm surprised there's enough room in your heart to like so many things," Riku had said sarcastically, and Kairi had laughed.

"But, really... Knowing more languages means I can befriend more people, people I wouldn't be able to know otherwise. There's no excuse for not knowing somebody's native tongue other than ignorance, and if you don't take in an interest in others and their cultures then you're just selfish and simple-minded. Language shouldn't be treated as a barrier dividing separate races. Rather, it should be seen as something _wonderful_ – a fun way of getting to know others! Least, that's what _I_ think," Kairi had said, all the while clacking beads together as she fashioned more home-made jewellery.

After that inspiring speech, Riku had been… Not _impressed_, exactly, for he had always assumed that there was nobody out there whose words had more meaning than his own.

Rather, Riku had felt enlightened.

Before, despite his mental agility, he had found it hard trying to compare Kairi and Auron as relatives. He had been smart and professional, what with his high profile job and probing questions, but she had never seemed to exude a similar air of intelligence.

Now, at least, Riku could finally find _some_ family resemblance.

And really, once he'd got to known _why_ Kairi loved to talk so much, she hadn't been nearly as annoying. Instead, she'd started to grow on him, sort of like a mushroom – her strange exuberance and happy-go-lucky attitude and that amazingly colourful _Kairi _way of looking at the world.

Quite surprisingly, Riku found he didn't mind talking to Kairi.

And, more surprising _still_, Riku found he was still talking to Kairi now.

Despite the fact that a new physiatrist had been found, Riku and Kairi were still in contact via the use of e-mail and texting, and met up infrequently whenever Riku had a break in his busy schedule, exorcising ghosts and all that crap.

That was probably the _only _thing Kairi didn't know about Riku, and he wanted to keep it that way.

"Hey, Kairi," Riku muttered, attempted to pry her manicured nails from around his wrist.

"What, Riku?"

"Can I _not _sit by the window, please?" he asked, horribly aware that all eyes were on him. He sighed inwardly, knowing it was _just _like Kairi to make a scene. He'd been a fool expecting otherwise once she'd ever-so-kindly crushed him with that welcome hug. "I was hoping I could sit at the back, by myself… _Away_ from people."

"Anti-social as ever," Kairi remarked, leading the way to the opposite side of the store.

Riku didn't even bother to point out that he was perfectly capable of finding a secluded table by himself. There wasn't much point, for he _knew _Kairi would argue back, and in arguments the girl never budged. It was sort of like trying to fight with a brick wall.

"Here you go," Kairi beamed, gesturing to a fairly nondescript table at the back, positioned by a cream-coloured wall at such an angle that he would be mostly invisible to everybody on the street and in the store. Riku could tell this table didn't get a lot of use due to its unfortunate placement, for the serviettes were folded exactly so with pointed edges and a fine layer of dust had settled atop of everything. There weren't even any pictures on the back walls. Evidently, Yuffie had reserved that table for people who didn't like colour and sunlight and socialising, and Riku was fairly glad she had done.

"You know me too well," Riku smiled a rare smile, sitting down elegantly at the chair nearest the corner.

"And you don't know me at all," Kairi grinned, hands reaching up to fix her stubby red ponytail. Loose strands of hair were starting to fall out haphazardly, and they were getting in her eyes; blowing them away or brushing them back was becoming bothersome. "Did you _forget_ that I worked here, Riku-chan?"

"Speaking of which, are you doing Japanese yet?"

"You're evading the subject."

"Not evading, just…" Riku paused, wondering how to justify his sudden lapse of memory. Obviously he couldn't blame it on Olette's ghost, although there really was no other reason.

"Awww, you're just incapable of admitting you might have forgotten something!" the girl giggled. "Don't worry, you're only human – just like the rest of us!"

Ha. If only Kairi knew…

Actually, all things considered, it was better that she didn't.

"My studies are going _great_!" the girl continued to chirrup, fishing out a crumpled notebook from her pocket. "I'm really getting a hang on Korean now – it's not so hard once you get started."

"Et… Parlez-vous Français?"

"Oui, oui, c'est très bon! J'adore les langues. _And_ I'm going to be starting Japanese in a few weeks, perhaps. Maybe even Polish some time next year – I'm feeling adventurous," Kairi grinned, pen poised in one hand over her notebook. "So what do you want?"

"Just a coffee."

"Sugar?"

"No – make it black."

"Size?"

"Normal size."

"Well, aren't you boring?" Kairi chided, snapping her notebook shut. "One medium black coffee. _Riiiight._ I'll be back with you in a second, honey."

"Thanks," Riku muttered, watching as Kairi bustled off in her ill-fitting uniform, messy ponytail starting to fall to pieces once more.

Riku rarely ever allowed himself to think kindly of others, for people were fickle. It was _stupid _to place faith in them and even _more_ stupid to form friendships with them, but he found himself weakening around Kairi.

On her way to the counter she somehow managed to bang her hip against one of the tables, upsetting a glass of water as she did so. Her alarmed squeals and endless apologies – "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm _sorry_!" – only prompted another rare smile from Riku, watching the drama unfold from the corners of his eyes.

Kairi was like a walking disaster.

Forget the nobody and Death Gods and Larxene – _Kairi _was the real plague upon humanity, far too clumsy for her good with minimal skills of co-ordination.

Just because she was smart didn't mean she had common sense.

Realising that many of the occupants in the shop had turned to stare at Kairi, Riku spun back round in his chair to (finally) acknowledge Olette's existence again. Safely concealed in a hidden niche separate from the chaos, he knew it would be the _perfect _time to question Olette about the details or her death, the ones the newspapers could never convey.

"Olette."

"Hmn?" The girl's eyes snapped upwards to Riku's face in a heartbeat, fingers folding in her lap. "Are we going to talk now?"

"Yes, I think we are."

Didn't just think – Riku _knew_. He was going to get _all_ the details and then he was going to get rid of her, most likely in the afternoon.

It wasn't _heartless_, just part of his job; quick and simple and straight-forward.

"Well…" Olette said, steadily staring the sugar bowl. "It happened last Friday, right?"

"Right," Riku nodded, affirming her story. _That_ much was true, he knew for a fact. The newspaper said so.

"It was after school, and me'n Roxas had arranged to go out-"

"You went out? Together?" Riku asked, beginning to push a sachet of salt across the table. He wasn't normally one to be nosy (he detested people that showed such qualities, example; those silly girls liked to poke and pry at his private life every chance they got) but he felt he _had _to know. It was absolutely necessary, just as it was absolutely necessary for scientists to know the Earth went around the Sun.

Olette seemed vaguely amused by this question, for reasons Riku could not fathom. He assumed it was just one of those girl things.

"_Yes_ we went out, you dummy. One whole year, in fact," she clarified, still smiling. "It was only something known by absolutely everybody."

"Not me."

"No. Not you. But you were never very interested in anything beyond your own little bubble, were you?"

Riku could not deny it, so instead he remained quiet. Really, who _cared_ if Olette was going out with her bitchy little friend, or if she dumped him the very next day for his twin brother? If he wanted drama, he'd watch a soap opera. As it was, he wanted _no_ drama, so he did _not _watch soap operas.

Kairi did, though.

He had to suppose once more it was another one of those girl things.

"You see, when we were going out… It was our anniversary," she sighed, sobering up a tad as the subject matter turned full circle back to the main question at hand. "It was such a _special_ night out – beautiful, really. We got dressed up all nice and pretty and we went to this shop – this _very same one _– and Yuffie had set on the tables all romantic-like, with candles and stuff. Your clumsy waitress was there as well."

"Kairi," Riku stated, watching as aforementioned clumsy waitress bounded around with her legs seeming almost too large for her body, flailing her arms wildly.

She seemed taller than last time he'd seen her.

"Kairi, right. She's such a sweetie, but _horribly_ clumsy."

"I hadn't noticed," Riku replied, voice deadpan.

"Anyway, when she was bringing me my lemonade she sort of tripped on thin air and spilt it all over poor Roxas," she giggled foolishly, but there was no real joy behind it. Rather, she looked vaguely depressed. "It was still a perfect evening, though – the sort you dream about ever since you were a little girl, you know?"

"No," Riku said, voice distant and detached. "For you see, I have never experienced this misfortune of being a girl myself, little or otherwise."

"You might as well be, what all your hair," Olette retorted, voice playful once more.

As if to prove her point, she leant across the table and fisted a handful of his silver bangs, coiling them round one finger slowly.

"It's a _fashion_ statement," Riku retorted, attempting to shrug her off.

"I think it's more like a 'somebody needs to go to the hairdresser's statement'."

"The girls at school like it."

"The girls at school are hopelessly empty-headed," Olette sighed, withdrawing her fingers slowly, an almost regretful look painted on her face. She obviously missed having contact with sentient objects. "Do you know I was tailing that Drizella girl – the one with the sister in the drama club – and she said she was _glad_ she finally had a shot of getting Roxas for herself!"

"That's horrible," Riku said, not knowing who Drizella was. He supposed it didn't really matter – he found that most girls were same anyway.

There was a pause and, as Olette picked at her wasted fingernails, Riku contemplated. _What to say, what to say..._

"So you got hit by a car."

It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes," she said. "And it was the best night of my life, besides."

"What a shame."

"I know," Olette frowned at her own misfortune, eyes flitting about the café with mild interest. Perhaps it stung a little, knowing this was the last place she and her boyfriend had been truly happy. "I wish I could tell him… Tell him it wasn't his fault… He blames himself, you know."

Her eyes were hollow, almost never-ending, irises flecked with a shroud of despair. It was an expression Riku had seen many-a time; dead people were not renowned for being particularly happy.

Then again, they weren't renowned for being particularly good conversationalists, either.

"Olette," Riku said, speaking just below a murmur; he had a sneaking suspicion Kairi would be back with his drink in a moment. "I have an idea. I think I might be able to help you speak to Roxas."

"Really?" the girl's eyes widened to comical proportions, round like dinner plates.

She was sort of like a human yoyo, flipping back and forth between emotions with a dizzying speed. Riku himself was beginning to feel a sick just watching her.

"Yes. I know _exactly _what we're going to do."

* * *

The sky: downcast. The landscape: gloomy. The people: listless. The mood: spirally downwards rapidly.

It was, quite literally, just another day in hell.

Every itty-bitty aspect of the place - from the scenic pits of brimstone to the picturesque piles of pungent corpses - had been finely-tuned beforehand by some almighty, all-knowing creator 'God' type, and the scenery corresponded exactly to the ideals of the masses that populated the human world. Everything was very dark, very depressing, very dull and _very _boring.

The sun in the sky hung large over the twisted landscape in all its splendour. It flickered like a candle as it slowly burnt itself out into oblivion, its dull orange colour reminiscent of Halloween nights complete with candy, trick-or-treating and grinning Jack-O-Lanterns.

Framing the giant, orange ball was a vast, inky sky completely devoid of stars and clouds – a huge, all-encompassing realm of _nothing _that threatened to swallow everything before it like a gaping black hole.

But still, even if its jaws _did_ happen to open up one day and devour the barren landscape before it, there was no doubt it would wretch it back up again in disgust.

Everything in hell was either dead, dying or _wishing_ it was dead or dying, at any rate.

Somewhere amongst all the dust and debris somebody (or, not be too cliché here, _something_) sighed.

A black cookie-cutter shape pitted against the pumpkin-esque sun, a pile of gangly limbs all folded up like a deckchair, bony fingers encased in black leather, a shock of ketchup hair, apple-green eyes.

The figure was strange, almost spider-like, staring off into the far-distant horizon. From the wrong angle it looked like those lanky limbs were a little _too _long and a little _too _plentiful. From the right angle it still looked pretty damn scary.

It's – or, in this case, _his_ - name was Axel and, if he were in better spirits, I'm he would have told you, the faithful reader, to commit it to memory. As it was, he had better things to do than spout off silly catchphrases.

He _was_ meant to be a God of Death, after all – bringer of doom and destruction and whatnot. If he had a license – which he didn't, having no use for such human necessities – it would've said right there, under his name, plain as day, in block capitals, '**OCCUPATION: REAPER OF SOULS'**. There were no two ways about it, really.

Axel had been a reaper of souls for coming on two billion years now. It was his first and only job and he prided himself in the fact that he was pretty damn _good _at it – targeting victims, memorising details, writing down facts, murdering innocents. It was all child's play, really.

Maybe that's why he sighed that day, for the very first time in two billion years.

He was _bored_.

"What's wrong, Axel?" asked a slight, almost inaudible voice.

Axel's teeth were suddenly bared, sharp as a drawer full of knives, leather-clad fingers digging into the ashes underfoot as he turned to face his quarry. His eyes were narrowed into slits of stained-glass green, ribcage rising and fell slowly from startled, strained breathing (an action that was completely pointless in itself considering he was immortal and all that jazz. It was right there in the big rulebook the Superior had in his office – '**A god of death cannot be killed even if stabbed in his heart with a knife or shot in the head with a gun.**') However, upon seeing who exactly his foe was, the murderous look slipped off his face almost instantaneously.

_Psh. If it'd been Demyx, he wouldn't have been nearly as lucky... The idiot._

"Hi Naminé," he greeted with a casual wave, watching as she accepted the welcoming gesture with a quick nod of her head.

Really, Axel reasoned with himself, even if she _had_ caught him at a moment of weakness, who was she to tell any of the others? No, Naminé – what with her pretty blonde hair and brittle sparrow bones - was trustworthy.

She was probably the closest thing to a human within a million miles of their stinking 'home', not counting the spheres they used to look down upon the human realm whenever there was reaping to be done and victims to chose.

She just seemed to have more compassion than the others, that was all. She was still a murderer, pretty face or no.

"Are you going to tell me why you were sulking on your ownsome now?" asked the little slip of a girl, clutching her trademark sketchbook to her chest. A packet of crayons also resided in her lap, wax shavings caught on the tips of her milky-white fingers.

"Well…" Axel said after a pause, doodling shapes aimlessly in the blanket of ash that perpetually covered the ground beneath him.

Oh, he knew _exactly _what was wrong now. Eternal rivers of torment and despair were all well and good, but after about a millennia or two the whole get-up got a bit depressing. But _still_…

It was nay impossible to voice his feelings to a fellow nobody. They weren't meant to have hearts – they were ripped out from birth (although, come to think of it, how _were_ they born?) – so how could one even begin to contemplate the vast, swirling oceans of depression? They were very human emotions, after all, and nobodies _weren't _humans. Period.

Axel still felt depressed, even so.

"The Superior's annoyed at Demyx, you know," Naminé chirped up after a while, letting Axel's lack of response slide.

"Why?" asked Axel, not really caring for the response. The Superior was _constantly _annoyed at Demyx, and he would be far more surprised if it were the other way round.

"He messed up bad – real bad," Naminé shrugged, setting her sketchbook on her pointed knees. "He killed a human girl whilst developing _feelings_ for her."

"Ah," Axel sighed, situation at hand becoming apparent. "Poor buggers. If only Demyx did his job _properly _we wouldn't have this problem."

"Quite," Naminé agreed placidly, selecting one of her crayons. "The Superior had some other news, though."

"Hmn?"

"He said he had a mission for you. Hmn… Yellow would look with this picture…"

"Hey, wait a minute," Axel interrupted, capturing both of Naminé's porcelain shoulders with his intrusive hands.

Axel's sudden burst of excitement had Naminé cutting her artistic musings short in a single human heart-beat, her blue eyes locking onto his grass-green optics as they smouldered with anticipation. "A mission? _Seriously_?"

Oh, this was perfect, _perfect_. Inner Axel was delirious with joy, drunk on happiness and other such feelings he wasn't actually allowed to _feel _because he was a God of Death and didn't have a heart and all that crap.

Still, he'd never really paid much attention in Xemnas' meetings before (that Rubik's cube had been much too engrossing), so the Superior could take his rules about human emotion and shove them up his ass, for all he cared. Axel was definitely feeling _something _here, some other-worldly excitement that bubbled from within his aging bones like a fountain of sherbet, the taste of adventure and action and something _new_ to break the millennias of monotony already tangible on the tip of his tongue.

"Yes. I've got all the information you need right here," she confirmed, sliding a brown envelope out of her burgundy sketchbook. It was a little crumpled at the corners from the way it had been sandwiched between two thick wads of skinned trees, but that was _nothing _to the way Axel's fingernails layed into it, hungrily ripping the flimsy paper to ribbons to reveal the details of his mission.

Two pieces of paper fluttered into his lap, one landing up-turned – a photograph and a sheet of information.

Axel blinked slowly, green eyes boring into the simple snap-shot with enough intensity to burn a hole through it. If this was a victim, which there was no doubt it _was_, then he'd have to remember every tiny little detail, drink them in through a straw.

"Guess he's a little camera shy," Axel concluded after a second or two of scrutiny, tossing the picture of the dejected, emo-tastic boy aside. Really, he seemed fairly unremarkable as far as humans went – blue eyes, pale face, spiky yellow hair (although Naminé would probably correct him later and say 'honey-blond, Axel'. Whatever – it wasn't like he had enough time to screw around with the rainbow when there were killings to be done. Leave the artistic crap to the artists).

On the second sheet of paper, the one which had landed bottom-side up, there were details of the boy, proving him to be rather unremarkable still; his name was Roxas, he was born on 21st of June, he lived in Twilight Town, his mom was called Aerith (Aeris in some circles), he had a brother, his dad was dead, his girlfriend was dead – the girl Demyx killed, actually.

The girl Demyx _failed_ to kill, rather.

All fairly average stuff.

At least, it was all fairly average until you got to the last part, written in the Superior's elegant script – large block capitals that ate up the white page like the plague, words that sent the gap in Axel's chest where his heart should've been clutching and contracting in a most frenzied manner.

The lettering said, in all simplicity, '**XIII?**'.

"Wow…" Axel breathed slowly, apple-green eyes staring, blank, dumb-struck. "I mean… Wow…"

"He has a pretty face," Naminé murmured absent-mindedly, selecting a yellow crayon. She started to sketch out flyaway blond spikes, visions of pineapples flitting through her brain like butterflies in nets. "Shame he's going to die, isn't it? Guess you better get going."

"Yeah… I guess," Axel shrugged, attempting to disguise his excitement. Finally, a mission – a _real _mission.

He unfolded his limbs out from beneath him with a few token cracks, moving his neck around slowly to sort out any kinks. Being on your ass for so long can do that to even the healthiest God of Death, and Axel was as healthy as they came – his chest was concave and everything.

"See you later, Naminé."

"Yes. See you later," the girl agreed, her lips twisting into a secretive smile as she dipped her head behind the cover of her sketchbook once more.

And maybe, if Axel had been in a different frame of mind, he would've noticed that smile and faltered, stopped, interrogated his fellow murder-mate. What cause did _she _have to smile?

Maybe because she knew more about the mission than she was letting on.

* * *

**a.n: omg, this chapter was long xD i rather much hope all other chapters will be this length in the future.**


	3. thistles

**chapter three  
**_thistles_

* * *

During Riku's short stint in the café, the intense heat outside seemed to have died down somewhat. Upon looking to the sky for an explanation, it became apparent that the sun was merely playing hide and go seek behind some heavy cloud cover.

Either way Riku still felt uncomfortable… Or maybe that was just because of Olette?

No matter how many times you talked to the dead people you never got _used_ to them, not really.

They were still meant to be _dead_.

Riku liked everything in his life to be made of fact, solid fact; water was wet and fire burned and the sun rose in the east and dead people stayed _dead_ – departed, deceased, _no more_.

Full stop.

That need for common sense was probably why he was so good at his job. He was just righting the many wrongs of the world.

In fact, if he had ever been given the task of turning the sky blue he wouldn't have batted an eyelid. He'd have simply rolled up his sleeves, cracked open a tin of paint and asked where to begin.

That was just the sort of person Riku was.

"So what's your nifty plan, oh Awesomely Amazing Riku?" Olette sang, circling the boy idly. She seemed in better spirits than she had half an hour ago, most likely because the sudden bout of gloomy weather had driven all but a few of the most serious shoppers back home. The chance of being walked through was now rather slim.

"You'll see," Riku replied, voice low, lips barely moving. "Hey, Olette."

"Hmn?"

"Do you have a tombstone?"

Olette's eyes seemed to cloud over at that throwaway statement, tugging at a lock of her hair in agitation. Most likely, she was not fond of that little memo; you _are dead. Soon, your body will be buried. Or cremated._ It just wasn't _nice _to think about such things.

She hummed a little, staring heavenwards. Her thoughts were heavy behind those glassy eyes, so much so that they were easily visible to Riku. Images of coffins and pyres and dirt and soil and flames and bodies…

_Corpses_.

Olette shuddered.

"Not yet," she admitted, facing the floor; it was safer that way. The floor could not interrogate her. "They haven't held the funeral yet."

"Uh-huh," Riku nodded, digesting this information slowly. Then, in a voice devoid of emotion, "There _is _a place where people have been leaving flowers and stuff though, right?"

The brunette frowned, tugging harder on that abused coil of hair.

"…Yes. There is."

Riku wasted no time, being in the no-nonsense frame of mind one adopts when they want to get a hard maths question done.

"Where is it?"

"It's… It's by the road… You know. The one where I got hit," she muttered hesitantly, skimming her foot across the ground. She still couldn't meet Riku in the eyes, shamefaced, almost like a young child called before the headmistress. She was even stuttering. "People have been coming and leaving flowers... Cards… My mom even brought my favourite teddy."

"Yes," Riku sighed, waving one hand in an agitated manner. He did _not _like dealing with sentimental crap – a teddy was just a teddy, certainly not something to cry over. At least his callousness put a lid on any future tears, for Olette did not look sad anymore. Rather, she looked slightly embarrassed. "But _where_ did you get hit? What was the road's name?"

"Oh, it was… It was down by the train station, actually. Not to far from here. They've been putting it by this big tree. You'll know which one it is when you see it. The one covered with stuff."

Riku thought as much.

Thanking Olette with a nod, the boy set off down the road, now with a vague idea of where he was going. The words ran through his brain on a permanent loop; train station, big tree, lots of stuff. There weren't that many big trees growing in such metropolitan areas. It couldn't be too hard to spot, especially not with all those cards and teddies and pointless tat underneath it. Sort of like the nest of a demented magpie.

"So… Why did you want to know?" Olette asked, looking at the floor in a dejected, kicked puppy sort of way.

Riku pondered for a good five seconds, now sidetracked by the girl's question.

He _hated_ questions.

Hated talking, too.

Finally deciding it wasn't worth it (she'd find out when they got there), he opted to say nothing; rather, he ignored her, although his walk became slightly brisker than before.

"Jerk…"

Riku snorted at the comment, but otherwise ignored it. Counting how many steps he'd taken seemed like a much better idea. Head to his shoes, lips barely moving, numbers flashed through his head like lightening; _427, 428, 429…_

Hmn…

He had nice shoes.

The laces were white.

Funny how he'd never noticed that before.

By about 839 steps in those very nice shoes of his Riku was out of the main shopping area and into a complex rabbit warren of sun-baked streets, twisting and turning like a Chinese dragon. A few trees wilted here and there at random intervals, smaller shops on either side with a handful of terraced houses.

A mother and a toddler, a young girl playing hopscotch, an elderly couple, an alley cat, a few shoppers willing to venture from the main body of stores to find what they wanted…

And a young woman.

A very pretty woman, actually, dressed head-to-toe in soft pink, eyes large and green like precious stones. A basket lay from the crook of her arm, an array of flowers spilling out over the side in rainbow colours.

She seemed to be walking in the general direction of a florist's, swinging her basket slightly as she moved.

_Perfect_.

"Olette," Riku started, watching as the pretty woman disappeared inside the store.

"Yes?"

"What are your favourite flowers?"

The brunette blinked slowly, question seeming to go over her head.

Well, to be fair, asking what her favourite flowers were _was_ unexpected. Random, even. And anybody who knew Riku could tell you in a heartbeat that Riku was _not _random. Riku was common sense, stoic common sense. Not a lot could prompt more than two words from him at a time, let alone something as trivial as botany.

_What are your favourite flowers…?_

"Daffodils," the girl eventually said, and she answered with the uncertainty one would adapt when taking an intelligence test for Mensa.

Larxene snorted.

Riku didn't even bother to turn his head, knowing full well she was circling them. She had been for quite some time.

"Daffodils. Good," Riku gave a curt nod, spinning on the balls of his sneakers. His _amazing_ sneakers with bright white laces.

"Um, Riku," Olette muttered, drifting behind him. Confusion sparked in her eyes, anxiously looking about her surroundings – the girl playing hopscotch was now singing a nursery rhyme of some sort and the toddler was screeching because he "WANNAHZ STROKE TEH KITTEH!".

Lovely.

"Riku," Olette tried more, hoping to grab his attention.

She'd been in the girl guides from an early age, toting funny-shaped homemade cookies door to door. As a result of this, she was _good _at making people listen to her, even if they really wanted to slam a door in her face.

"Riku, you're going the wrong way," she pointed out, still floating half-heartedly behind him. The little girl and the toddler and the alley cat were slowly getting further and further away, lost from her line of vision completely as soon as they entered the looming building.

The smell of pollen filled the air, thick and sweet like honey. One did not have to look far to find the source of the smell. There were _flowers_, multitudes of flowers, all arranged in vases – lots of vases, mismatched and chipped at the sides – and placed on every single available surface. They went up and down in arrays of colour, red and yellow and blue and purple and some other colours that were hard to fix names to – they were just _there_, growing silently under the bright lighting.

However, the harsh lighting was not the only thing that made Riku wince.

Everything was _pink_; the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the woman's dress – everything. All pink.

Or magenta.

Or coral.

Or rose.

That was a _helluva lotta_ pink.

Larxene certainly seemed to think so, for one look of the shop's interior had her merging back through the wall and out into the street again. Riku wasn't sure what she was going to do to amuse herself. Maybe circle the girl playing hopscotch, see if she could use some telepathy to bowl her over and cut her knee up or something?

Larxene was cruel like that, the sort of person who found amusement in drowning puppies.

At any time Riku questioned her sadism she would merely reply with a, "What? It's my job. Isn't it a good thing I enjoy it so much?" and the silver-haired teen found himself content with that answer.

It wasn't really any of his business.

Not if he didn't want to be next on the God of Death hit list, at any rate.

"Um, Miss," he started, surveying the pink woman with both his wintry eyes. He couldn't but feel a tad out of place in that store, what with his pale clothes and skin. He realised he must look _terrible _when stood before a background of pink, pink, nothing but pink, almost like a ghost.

Ha.

_Like a ghost._

How ironic.

"Hmn? Oh my, I'm sorry!" she chirruped. Her voice was sunny, and seemed to tie perfectly with the ambience of the room. Riku could tell that she was the owner in a heartbeat, for the earth streaked across her cheek and under her nails seemed to suggest a woman who found joy in the outdoors, gardening and the like.

_And _there was the dress. The dress that blended in perfectly – a little _too _perfectly – with the interior decorating.

Riku could only imagine how much she'd enjoyed herself whilst choosing the colour scheme.

"We- _I'm_," Riku hastily corrected himself, irked at how that plural had nearly. He was just surprised, that was all. _God, that better not happen again. _"_I'm _just looking for some flowers. Daffodils."

"Nice choice," the woman nodded, her face seeming strangely soft and childlike, as was her joy in discussing botany. That basket was still in her arms, however, and it was with an apologetic air that she gestured to it. "I'm sorry, but I'm a tad tied up at the moment – you know, arranging these. Somebody ordered them yesterday and it simply _couldn't _wait."

"Oh. Sorry to bother you, Miss."

"Sorry? Don't be sorry," the woman beamed, face lit up like a Christmas tree. She was almost like a doll in that respect – her smile seemed fixed, unwavering, unchangeable. "If it's urgent business you can go and talk to Sora. My little helper!"

"Sora?" Riku frowned, some sort of light bulb flickering dully in the back of his mind.

He _knew_ that name.

The woman, however, took this question to mean something different, for she smiled, basket balanced on her hip, and vaguely pointed with one dirt-encrusted fingernail. "Yeah, Sora – over there at the counter. Probably listening to music again – the slacker!"

Riku smiled at her friendly comments, laced here and there with the odd giggle or two. With a few brief 'thank you's, to which she replied "it's no trouble, love," he was off, bravely venturing forth into the vast jungle of flora and fauna until he couldn't see the florist anymore.

The heady scent of earth and loam quickly filled his nostrils; if not a _pleasant _feeling, it certainly _was_ a feeling – memorable, at any rate. However, it would be a lie to say he was not glad once he'd finally cleared the slalom of delicate floral arrangements and small saplings in pots.

He had a feeling the girlish woman would not be very happy if he smashed any of her stock.

Exhaling heavily once the lingering smell of soil had dissipated somewhat, the boy allowed his eyes to flicker across the new surroundings. The colour scheme was, once again, predominantly pink.

_Well, no surprises there, then._

It wasn't necessarily a _bad _thing.

The only detail about this new room that served to be a tad surprising was the boy sat within it.

His hair was of the messy, flyaway variety, the sort that seemed to devour hairbrushes and loose change. Indeed, his eyes appeared to have been partially swallowed by his wild bangs, cobalt that flickered under the lights above. A magazine of some sort was held in his hands, head bobbing to the inaudible music of his iPod.

Riku could only assume that _this_ was Sora, which did not match up with the Sora in his head. Far from it, as matter of fact; _that _Sora was distinctly female, long hair wound back with ribbons, painted fingernails and perhaps a dress. A pink one, of course. Coral pink.

So what was a _boy _doing there? Surely working at a florist's was not the most masculine of jobs, especially not for a reasonably attractive, rebel-type highschooler.

And wasn't Sora a _girl's _name?

Riku cleared his throat.

With a quick jerk, the boy had the magazine under the table before Riku could get a good look at the front cover, slightly flushed as he stared up at the intruder. (Such actions led Riku to believe the material under the desk was of the adult variety, and had half a mind to ask Olette for proof.)

Upon realising that the throat-clearer in question was _not _his boss Sora visibly relaxed, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. With a deft flick of his fingers, the iPod was turned off and headphones unplugged, leaving a nest of wires before him like vipers.

"Hi," he beamed, face lit up by a smile so similar to the woman's it was almost eerie. "I'm Sora."

Riku decided to play safe – short answers would suffice. "I'm aware of that."

"Yeaaah, I guess you would be. Kinda stupid thing to say, huh?" he grinned sheepishly, rolling his eyes heavenwards.

It was those words that made Riku pause, realisation suddenly dawning upon him; he felt thoroughly enlightened now.

Sora went to his school.

To coin a famous Disney song, it's a small world after all.

"Soooo. _Anyway_," Sora clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and Riku was quick to notice that the boy liked to draw out his words lliiikkkeeee sooooo. It was vaguely annoying – syllables that should have lasted mere milliseconds dragged on through time and space, words stretching like vast canyons. "Whaddaya want?"

_And _he spoke with a complete disregard to Standard English.

He was obviously a boy who was going to go far in life.

"A bouquet. Daffodils. Maybe with some more summer flowers thrown in?" Riku asked, turning to eye the all-encompassing floral display he'd waded through mere seconds ago. He was sure Sora would be able to find something that matched his vague demands amongst all of that.

"Hey, sure. Just wait there a while, kay? It's gonna take me _years_ to wade through all that!"

Riku smiled politely, watching as Sora abandoned his post at the table. It was only when he rolled up his sleeves up in anticipation of the task ahead that Riku noticed the numerous cuts and scars dotted about his exposed flesh, some of them rubbed crimson like raw meat.

"What the…?"

"Oh, _these_?" Sora grinned, seeming indifferent to his disfiguring rashes. He'd probably heard the same intake of breath and the exclamations of alarm countless times before, for he relayed the woeful tale with a rehearsed sort of good humour. "I fell into some poison oak while helping mom with the gardening. That was a few weeks ago."

Despite his better judgement, Riku couldn't help but ask; "Doesn't it _hurt_?"

It was only three words.

As _many _as three words.

Riku barely spoke that amount to his family and he had to _live_ with them. Over the years he'd figured a short "been studying" would suffice whenever his parents asked questions.

"This? Hurt? _Nah_," Sora replied flippantly, voice adapting the tones of a great war veteran returning home from some bloody crusade. "Yeah, it stung a little at first, but now it doesn't bug me no more. Well, not _too _much!"

This prompted a rather pleasant smile from Riku, watching with mild amusement as Sora grappled with a few difficult creeper-type plants. Somehow they had snaked around his wrists, and a rather violent display had ensured. Sora really was the _last _person to work at a florist's – the plants seemed to _cower _before him, as if afraid of being torn to ribbons.

Riku doubted it would've been the first time.

"Ye-aahhhh. I'm kinda clumsy, huh?" Sora continued, voice quickly becoming muffled amidst the miniature rainforest; unwittingly, Riku leant forwards in order to listen more carefully. "You know that woman working at the front? That's Aerith, my mother. I prolly wouldn't be here at all if weren't for her – ah, sunflowers! You like sunflowers?"

"Yeah."

"Sunflowers it is. You know, at first Aerith tried to make me work all the fiddly stuff. You know, floral arranging, keeping the place tidy… All that busywork. Ha! – she soon gave up on that idea after I trampled all those roses! By accident, mind. Hey! Maybe roses? … Nah. I'll go with carnations. They're brighter, anyhow. And lilies? Liles okay?"

"Uh-huh."

"Great! My favourite flower, lilies. Not that you care. Haha. Say, what are all these for, anyhow? What's the occasion? Some grandma's birthday? A wedding? … Oh, wait, I know. A girlfriend! It's a girlfriend, right? I mean, which girl _doesn't _have a crush on you! They kiss the ground you walk on, man. Us males are all very envious – you didn't hear it from me, though! So go on, what's the lucky girl's name?"

"Funeral."

"Hmn. A rather maudlin name. I feel sorry for the kid – my heart goes out to her, whoever she is. Send her my love, 'kay? I know how it feels to be landed with a _stupid_ na-"

"_No_," Riku corrected, silencing the boy's tirade. However, it was with no real malice that he interrupted; on the contrary, he found Sora's drivel quite entertaining. If he were somebody else, he probably would've laughed. "The flowers aren't for a _girl _named Funeral, they're _for _a funeral."

"Ah! I _thought _as much," Sora beamed, now emerging forth from the wilderness with several red/orange/yellow-themed flowers clutched to his chest. Prominent in the display was a giant cluster of daffodils, yellow heads glowing like pixie dust.

"_Anyhow_, you'd have to be pretty damn cruel to call a child that. Imagine the teasing! Although…" Sora paused, fanning the fairly impressive bouquet out across the table, "I wasn't too sure on the second option, either. I never knew you were that close to Olette."

Riku frowned, eyes flickering for a few seconds towards the dead girl; she was currently sat on Sora's desk, legs swinging, shoes hanging off the tips of her toes.

Oh yeah, he and Olette were close alright.

"We were… Friends," Riku replied, fingering a few of Olette's daffodils. Pretty things, really, if a little useless; Riku usually had no time for such trivialities, yet it was sort of nice to just look and touch and smell for a bit, absolutely _no_ outside worries involved. "How did you know that they were for Olette, anyway?"

"Funny you should ask," Sora smiled, gathering up the flowers and fishing out a length of red ribbon. Diligently, his skilled fingers began to cut and snip lengths of ribbon, all the while offering his explanation with a lively pizzazz. "Olette used to go out with my brother, see? You know – Roxas. He was out buying flowers for her so often I got all her favourites memorised. I could tell these were for her 'soon as you asked for daffodils, 'cause they were always her favourites. Lotsa people coming in asking for daffodils as a late, actually. You're not the first."

Riku inhaled sharply, barely able to believe his good fortune; his plan was being put into motion _already_, and in ways far beyond his early expectations!

If everything went smoothly, Olette would meet her maker far quicker than intended; she could _finally_ rest in peace.

Riku couldn't wait.

Now humming to himself, Sora began to tie the ribbon into complex little knots; dirt-speckled digits darting here and there like tadpoles in a pond. "Yeah, loads of people upset about it - 'course, that shouldn't be such a big surprise. She was a lovely girl. Alright, here they are, all wrapped up and ready to go. That'll be ten dollars, please."

"Thanks," Riku replied, sliding the crisp dollar bills across the table with a disarming smile. "She'd have loved these. Hey, I was just wondering-"

"Hmn? Shoot, I'm all ears."

"How is your brother? I mean – I'm sorry, I know it's not my place to ask – but we've all been pretty shaken by Olette's death. I was, and I didn't even _know her_ that well. Not as well as Roxas did, at any rate. Is he okay…?"

Sora's face seemed to cloud over, smile guttering out like the candles on a birthday cake. The abrupt change in character was so fast it could have induced motion sickness, and was rather alarming to boot.

Riku kind of missed that smile.

The boy's words were a long time coming out now, fractured here and there with pauses of a giant magnitude; he was _shaking_, too, drumming his nails against his desk in a distracted manner.

Each clunk made Olette twitch, sent the coils of iPod a few inches into the air - even the dollar bills fluttered to the floor like green butterflies, yet Sora made no move to pick them up.

"Yeah, about him… Oh God. Roxas… Roxas, Roxas, Roxas. Where to begin? Weeellllll…" the boy sighed, shaking his head; the subject matter was clearly quite delicate.

He must have loved his brother a lot.

"He's been dejected. Well," Sora broke off with a few stray giggles, although they sounded weak and uneasy. Out of place. He wasn't really happy. "I guess that's kind of obvious, really. But it's… It seems like _more_ than that, somehow. He's shut up in his room by himself, and he'll never turn the lights on, and he hasn't eaten for days, and… And… And he hasn't even visited the place she was hit, not like all the others. He doesn't show much interest in it, actually. I think… I think, for whatever crazy reason – and I don't know what this reason is, 'cause Roxas has _always_ been pretty hard to read – that he blames himself. How _mad_ is that? I'm almost one hundred percent sure… He feels guilty. He thinks he did it. _Idiot_…"

Oh, this was perfect.

"That's pretty bizarre," Riku agreed, thumb hooked under his chin in faux thought. "I didn't know Olette too well, like I said before, but… Well, I imagine I knew her well enough to know that she'd never stay with an _abusive_ boyfriend. She was smarter than that."

During his little pantomime routine one eye couldn't help but dart back to Olette, who was merrily kicking her feet and watching with interest. She seemed rather taken in by Riku's acting abilities, and surveyed the scene as though it were a soap opera.

Spurred on by Olette's positive response, Riku continued.

"I feel sorry for your brother, I really do – I suppose he must have taken it the hardest of all, considering he was the one closest to her. Unable to blame anyone else, I suppose he decided to let the guilt fall onto his own shoulders; it's human instinct. But I bet _Olette _wouldn't see it that way. I bet, if she was here right now, she'd say "don't worry, it's not your fault – don't blame yourself." Love isn't about false accusations or _grudges_. Even if he _had _pushed her, and I don't believe for a second that he did, she'd have forgiven him in a heartbeat. Love is about trust, and if Roxas ever really trusted Olette he'd understand that and let it go. So just… Just tell him what I said, right? If you get worried, just say "Olette wouldn't mind. Olette would still love you". It's probably the best thing you can do," Riku exhaled, rocking back on the balls of his feet.

Hell, he'd been unaware he even _possessed _the ability to talk so much. He'd probably said more words in the past minute than he for rest of the year – _two years_ – put together. And now-

-_fuck_, now his throat was dry.

He needed a drink.

Sliding the flowers to the safety of his arms, he bowed his head slightly and gave a small smile. "Thanks again for being so helpful. I hope your brother feels better soon."

And then he left.

"_Wow_. I'm very impressed," Olette congratulated the moment he exited the store, grinning Cheshire cat grins from ear-to-ear. "Was that your master plan? Get somebody I knew to pass on my message?"

"Yeah," Riku nodded, the thought of returning home never seeming so… Well… _Homely_. With any luck, he could say he was studying and vacate to his room for the next four hours or so – four hours would be_ plenty_ of time to bask in his victory, and bask he would. "I thought there might be somebody at your grave I could talk to. Figured Roxas wouldn't listen to me if I phoned up – no, he wouldn't have listened at all. He'd have slammed the phone down. Better to use word of mouth, especially when the mouth belongs to somebody he knows. More believable. Of course, if nobody had been there I would've kept coming back, but Sora… Well… Not even I could've predicted that."

"So what now?" inquired Olette sweetly, delighted to hear Riku so exultant in his overwhelming success. It was _cute_, was all, just like a little kid with a lollipop. Just like the girl playing hopscotch.

"Well…" Riku frowned, not even bothering to look both ways whilst crossing a busy road; he was past caring. Obviously, he had learnt nothing from Olette's sad tale. "With a little more luck, Sora passes the message onto Roxas, Roxas stops being so depressed, you become content with the earth and depart to heaven, hell, the afterlife – wherever you're supposed to be that isn't here, basically."

"So all we've got to do is wait?"

"_Ex-_actly."

"And the flowers…?"

"I might as well put them down by that tree, might I? They _were_ for you, after all."

Olette sighed happily, clasping her hands. "Yes…" she went on to breath, a seraphic smile alighting on her face. "You went through all that trouble… You tried to make Roxas – _my_ Roxas – forgive himself… All of that, all of this… All of it for me…"

Well ha bloody ha.

Olette really _was_ naïve.

* * *

"_Oh dear… Do you think he's alright?_"

"_Mom, Olette _died. _Of course he's not alright._"

"_But he's being so quiet…"_

"_He's _always _been quiet."_

"_I'm sure it's not healthy, keeping everything bottled up inside. I wish he'd talk to me… Oh God, what if this is all _my _fault…?"_

"_Once again; mom, Olette _died_. It was not you that pushed her out into the road. She stumbled, tripped, fell, whatever, but the main thing I'm getting at here is it wasn't. Your. Fault."_

"_But maybe if I had been there for him in the past he'd be more at ease around me now… I feel I barely know him anymore, up in his room all the time – no, don't say it, it's not just because of Olette. This started years and years ago, don't tell me it didn't. He was always such a… Not a loner… A recluse, I suppose, and it couldn't have helped losing… Losing C- I mean… Losing his dad so young… I… Oh my…"_

"_Please, mom, you're stressing yourself out."_

"_I can't help it. He's my _son_."_

"_I'm your son too, mom."_

"_But he's hurting. You can see it in his eyes, he's just… He's hurting so very much. What if he takes it into his head to do something stupid and I can't stop him? He could be doing something stupid right now and I wouldn't know, I have no idea what he does when he's locked up by himself, and… and… I know it might sound stupid, but I'm _scared… _I'm so scared."_

"_Oh, mom, _you're _the one being stupid right now. Can't you see? You're hurting, too. You're hurting so much." A pause, delicate like porcelain. "You know what…"_

_A subtle shake of the head – 'no'. Her eyes told a different story._

"_I think Roxas blames himself, you know. He's got it into his head that he killed her, and you know how he is about his stupid theories. He's stubborn like that. I know Olette would want him to let it go, hell, we all want him to let it go, but he won't. He can't. Whatever we say, whatever we _do_… It's not going to change anything." Another pause, this time the voice softer, ribbed with flutters of anxiety; barely audible over the chinking of teacups and the tremors in his breath and the rhythmic tick, tick ticking of the clock…_

"_I just… I don't want him to hurt you, mom. I love you."_

Roxas frowned and moved away from the door, back cracking painfully as he did so. Eavesdropping came with several unpleasant consequences, such as the constant need for an alibi if caught, which was always a haunting possibility, and the requirement to press your body up against objects which were not necessarily of the cuddly variety. Downright _painful_, more like.

_This can't be good for my life expectancy_, mused the blond, staggering slightly to his right-hand side whilst moving. His breath came out in precarious bursts, sharp and jagged like stained glass – such a way of life was not _living_, really.

Roxas hadn't been truly _living_ for a long time, even before Olette.

Ah… _Olette_…

Olette was, in each and every sense of the word, _perfect_. The perfect girlfriend all round, kind and caring but not overly-so. Not _stupid_. Not _stifling_. Just… Just Olette, really, toothy smiles, airy giggles, messy hair and flushed cheeks, never seen without her paintbrush or her camera or her flute. Involved in all sorts of extra-curricular activates, spending half her _life_ in the darkroom until her skin turned sallow and milky, always eager to pitch in and lend a hand – several hands, actually, for if she had been an octopus she would gladly have donated all eight.

That was how Roxas had first met her, actually. She had been sat, if he remembered correctly in one corner of the corner of the Art room with her hair tied back in loose pigtails, dungarees splotched here and there with paint, _and _her fingers, _and_ her hands, _and_ up her arms. Even on her face, up and down her neck, a neat speck of red of the tip of her nose.

"Like Rudolph," she had commented dryly, blinking her hazel eyes – and she had _freckles_, too, though partially obscured by paint – steadily at Roxas.

He had been staring at her, and up until that point he hadn't even _realised_.

"Oh. I, err… I'm sorry?" he asked, more a question than anything else. He had never felt the need to apologise before, and was not entirely sure how to go about such a thing. At the time it seemed like a momentous step for such an anti-social person, conversing lightly, even acting _courteous_ towards this pixie-esque girl, without a sense of inhibition.

Well, to be fair, he probably still came across as a tad shy – _shy. _Humph – but at least he was _talking. _Speech in itself was not a common occurrence, and he'd half expected his voice to taste dry like ash for how unused it was, and that was something to be proud of indeed.

Even Olette seemed to think so, for she laid down her brush, now quite drenched in canary yellow, and cocked her head to one side.

"You don't talk much, do you?" she had asked, prompting a mere grunt from her 'acquaintance', at which she giggled, ducking her head. "So what're you doing here at break, hmn? It's a very pretty day."

Roxas shrugged, as though he had not noticed such things; how anybody could rejoice in such sweltering heat was a mystery to him, _especially _as it brought about feelings of delirium in all the boys that caused them, for reasons unknown, to strip down to their pants and engage in games of soccer, all seeming _much_ more violent due to the sunshine than was per norm. Walking with a constant fear that you were going to get bonked on the head with a pigs' skin and/or one of the idiots that charged after it was _not_ Roxas' idea of a 'pretty day'.

Rather, the boy couldn't help but prefer Winter-time and the melancholy stillness it inspired. Granted, the Christmas paraphernalia and cheap fairy-lights were a tad over-bearing, but the endless droves of rain and snow was enough to clear the school field, at any rate.

Strange as it sounded, he only felt _comfy_ with little more than his own heartbeat for company. People were idiots, plain and simple; doubly so for labelling him as shy, of all things.

Did it not occur to them that he simply didn't want to engage in conversation? Such things were pointless, especially when initiated with the sport-obsessed ilk that seemed to crowd the corridors.

Olette, however, was different.

It seemed, to Roxas at least, like they shared similar ideals, for was she not finding sanctuary in the form of her paintings? She was quite skilled at it too, by the looks of things – messy attire excluded, of course.

"Me?" she asked, seeming content with Roxas' silence. It was understanding that flitted between them momentarily, eyes seeming to find the others' with no actual inclination for them to do so. Her hand continued to move on auto-pilot, but she was no longer _seeing _what she was painting. "I'm helping out the drama department. Putting on a school play, you know?"

Roxas' face remained blank, a testament to the fact that no, he did _not _know the drama department was putting on a play. Didn't really care, to be quite honest, although this distant expression seemed to evoke further amusement in the brunette.

"I guess not," she said in-between giggles, attempting to stifle them with the flat of her hand. "Well, they say you learn something new every day, right?"

Roxas shrugged, playing at apathy.

"Soooo… _Yeah_," Olette summarised, flicking speckled patches of white across the newspaper-clad floor. "School play. Cinderella. Hayner was cast as the prince – _Hayner_, of all people! Funny story 'bout that, really…"

"Hayner?" inquired Roxas, not because he particularly _cared _about the aforementioned 'handsome prince', for it was highly likely that he was another one of those stupid boys who dutifully ran across muddy fields every lunch time.

Rather, he had instigated further conversation because… Because…

…because Olette's smile more than made up for it.

"Oh my, Roxas. Have you been living under a _rock_? Hayner, you know – Hayyyyyynerrrr. One of my friends," she elaborated, voice adapting a sing-song lilt as she casually splashed paint.

"Ohhh…"

Realisation dawned, memories picked off cobweb-scattered shelves at the back of his mind's eye. Photographs, rather – the bossy kid with the short temper and the tubby kid with the silly haircut.

Hayner and Pence.

Such friends seemed _beneath_ Olette, almost, for she was sensitive and kind of heart, whereas they were fairly mundane in comparison; Hayner, with his wicked temper and fast-flying fists. Pence, with his corny catchphrases, videogames, potato chips. The Weirdo and The Nerd, as it were.

Fortunately, Roxas knew to leave well enough alone on the subject of Bossy and Tubby – conversation could be found elsewhere in safer, less shaky terms.

"So… The painting?" Roxas prompted, nudging the strip of plasterboard.

"Ah yes. The painting," Olette nodded, flicking her brush about in neat circles. "Well, me and Hayner _both _auditioned for parts – sorta for a joke, really. It wasn't _serious_. Well, it wasn't until he was actually chosen for the role!" And here the girl sniggered, though not unkindly; it was more light-hearted, and Roxas doubted that she had the ability to tease in a malicious way. Such a thing did not tie well with her bright smiles, almost overwhelming in their sincerity.

"I take it he is not the gentlemanly sort?" inquired the blond, yet more memories surfacing at the words.

Hayner, a _gentleman_?

The same thought seemed to have imposed itself upon Olette's mind, for her sniggers gave birth to proper laughter, spluttering a tad through futile attempts to fill her lungs with air. "Hayner?" she gasped between breaths, brush held slackly in one shaking hand. "Hayner? Haven't you _seen _him act before? He has all the grace of a wooden board. Damn, I feel sorry for Selphie during the ball scene – he literally _grabs_ her like a takeaway pizza and _throws_ her off the side of the stage!"

"Selphie?"

"Yeah, Selphie; yellow sundress, flicky-outy hair, kinda daffy. Likes shojo manga. Our Cinderella," Olette explained, Roxas proffering a small 'ah' of understanding. Images of a tiny, pint-sized girl sneakily reading _Kare Kano_ from in-between the pages of her geography textbook sprang to mind.

Waving her paintbrush in a most casual manner, Olette commenced her tale once more. "So. So, so, so. Hayner got a part and I didn't. Buuut he found he simply couldn't _bear_ the thought of being at rehearsals by himself. And so, under the pretence of needing somebody to paint the scenery, he got me into the rehearsals as well. I sort of sit at the back with this other guy – Tidus, you won't know him – and sort out the scenery."

Roxas frowned, absorbing this information readily enough. However, his mind found gaps in her explanation, thus birthing a desire to inquire further; to _continue _the conversation.

It felt like grasping at straws, to be quite honest, just a desperate bid to speak and be spoken to, nothing more. Perhaps if he were in a different situation with different people he would not care half as much about such trivial things.

"So… Why are you here now, by yourself?" Roxas pressed on, regardless.

He could not compare every action to the ones initiated in the past, he reasoned; if he did such a thing life would become horribly repetitive, much like watching a film in the company of somebody who's seen it before.

_Dull_.

"Tidus has been off school for a few days – ill, I think," Olette shrugged, leaning over her picture, brush dripping with paint; down the handle, thick against the bristles, pooling on the white canvas beneath; plip, plip, plip. "Now I have to work twice as hard, if only for a little bit!" she beamed, seeming unperturbed by this sudden shift of responsibility.

"Aren't you annoyed?"

"Mmmn," Olette frowned, methodically streaking gashes of colour. "Not really. Tidus can't help being sick, can he?"

"But what about all the work you have to do? By the sounds of it, you didn't even _want _to help out in the first place."

"I like painting. It's relaxing," Olette shrugged, swiping a few coils of chocolate hair behind one ear. "But you know…" And here her lips twisted upwards, devilish smirk manifesting itself about her pretty face.

"What?"

"If you're _so _stung by the injustice of it all why don't you grab a brush and help me?"

Roxas did little less than _gape_, eyes large as marbles. However, upon realising this, his nerves soon became all a-buzz with humiliation, an alien emotion which sang straight through his vertebrae nervous system and up, up, up into his brain.

In the blink of an eye that stupid expression was put to rest, buried under the silent hope that it would _never_ come back.

'Goldfish' was _not _a look that showcased his finer points.

"What?" Roxas repeated, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Slowly he let the fingers fall, running along ever contour and crevice of his white marble face in a manner similar to that of a blind person's. Reassured that his face was no longer twisted up into that _stupid _expression, he allowed himself to breath easy.

Nothing else she said could cause further disorientation, that he was sure on. The mask would not allow it.

"Just what I said. Grab a brush and get painting," Olette said, inclining her head towards a fairly nondescript cupboard in the corner, obviously used for the storage of art equipment. "I need to get another board done before fourth lesson. Surely you wouldn't mind…?"

And, farfetched as it was, Roxas found himself not minding _too _terribly. In actual fact, he didn't mind at all; the choice was rather simple, in his mind. Go outside and be assaulted by nine hundred plus kids. Stay _in_side and mix paint with _one _girl.

The sheer size of student body gave a near-constant protective shield of inconspicuously, granted, _but _he had yet to factor in the soccer ball…

…and Olette's _beautiful _smile.

A smile that had become a rather permanent fixture in his life as of late; solid and reliable like the ground beneath his feet.

Roxas liked to think he was more dependant on cement and soil than the facial expressions of a dead girl.

With a depressing sigh, the boy let himself into his bedroom; black, as that was the only colour his mood would permit. Drawn curtains – they _had_ to be drawn, lest he catch a glimpse of the stars outside.

She had always _loved_ the stars.

"_But they could never shine as bright as you."_

Roxas grunted at the memory, rolling his eyes skywards. It was dangerous to dwell too much on what had passed, like shifting through glass; it might look harmless at first glance, but when touched held the ability to maim and tear-

_-and cut_.

Here the boy shuddered, no longer possessing the energy to stand; rather, he slipped backwards on a wave of fatigue, spine jarring against the side of his bed.

"Ouch."

His dull voice cut across the room like a knife.

The fish, which had once upon a time been slumbering in their tank, became aroused at this sudden stirring from their owner, beady eyes flickering as if the noise heralded food.

Roxas supposed the perpetual dark was not healthy, for neither him nor the fish, and the only water they had to swim about in was getting rather grey and stagnant. Olette's death was not the only loss he'd had to cope with over the past few days; already he had bade farewell to Sakae and Takako. All the other fish seemed in melancholy spirits, barely bothering to move.

Maybe even they had given up, too.

_Wait…_

_Am I… Giving up…?_

Roxas frowned, eyelashes pressing flush against his cold skin. Sleep had never seemed like such a welcome prospect; eternal sleep, then, for time became meaningless to those under stone…

He sighed softly, making no move to lay flat upon his bed. In his current state he was perfectly content to lean against it, back twisted in a rather unpleasant manner… _Sleep heals all wounds._

It was with these maudlin thoughts that he finally allowed himself to fall, face softening through sleep until he became that of a child, inhaling and exhaling at regular intervals...

Meanwhile, some several feet away, a feathered creature crouched upon the curve of a lamppost, eyes yellow like torches, razorblade-mouth curved upwards into a thin smile.

It was laughing.

* * *

"Three aces and a queen - I win again," Luxord declared, fanning his cards out against the barren soil.

His voice seemed to slice through the musty air with such projection it was easily comparable to a thunderclap, and with those words there was a gaunt smile on his lips. It was boredom, however, that played a more dominant role in his facial features.

Truth be told, the outcome of that game had been easily predictable right from the word 'go'._ None_ of his fellow nobodies were on par with him when it came to cards (apart from maybe Larxene, but that was because she always cheated).

"Damnit. You got me, man," Xigbar muttered, throwing down his own cards in disgust. "I thought I had a chance there."

"Psssh – _you_? You're completely helpless," Marluxia replied flippantly, not seeming to care for the evil look this earned him.

"So are _you_."

"We are all helpless when compared to Luxord," Lexaeus stated, and the others made no move to disagree with that. It was like a _fact_; something in the nobody realm that seemed more concrete than the ground they walked upon.

Luxord would _never _be defeated at cards.

Period.

The gambler grinned and wished his companions a hearty "better look next time", watching as they slowly got to their feet (limbs cracking in the process) and ambled away.

Most likely to kill people.

Finally, it seemed, his opponents had given up.

And all it had taken was about ninety-nine defeats and the greater part of three hours.

Finally left to his own devices, Luxord allowed himself to lean back and contemplate. Heaven, hell, the nobody realm, the general human concept of life after death – it was all fairly interesting stuff. He had learnt a great deal about it several hundred years ago from a little human girl, young whatshername. She had (used to have) blonde hair that her mother brushed back into cute little pigtails every day and _always _wore a crucifix, like some sort of weight about her neck. Devoutly Christian, sweet little whatshername had been, and _oh _how funny it was when she opened her eyes one day to learn that she could somehow, inexplicably, see and talk to the dead.

And the anorexic-looking God of Death that stuck to her like glue hadn't gone down too well, either.

What had happened to whatshername? She must be long dead now, bones turned to ashes and ashes turned to dust and dust turned to nothing.

Perhaps she had been brunt for practicing witchcraft; such public executions were not uncommon in the fifteen and sixteen hundreds.

If he could remember correctly, Zexion's little friend had burnt alive too, though for a different reason altogether; he thought had gone quite mad when visited by an eerie spectre from another world, and had committed suicide shortly after with a box of matches and canister of gasoline.

_Ha._

Humans really were a _riot_.

Especially the poor, unfortunate souls that cold see dead people.

The current 'seer' – Ricky, his name was? – had the misfortune of being saddled with _Larxene_, for heaven's sake. He was a stronger man than most if he was still alive and kicking. Even Luxord was afraid of Larxene to some extent, and _he_ was immortal!

Then again, killing your appointed seer was a bit like closing the prison door and swallowing the key. For most nobodies, they only got to leave their realm every thousand years or so.

Luxord wouldn't mind submerging himself in the human realm once more, for it had been so very _different _to the dull, dreary landscape he was used to.

The human world was bright and colourful.

Little whatshername had been bright and colourful.

Even her _death_ had been bright and colourful, a glorious pyre of red and orange and yellow. Luxord could see it now – smoke coiling elegantly like calligraphy from a pen, sky _burning _and sun setting; ashes to ashes…

Little whatshername had deserved a beautiful death.

In the nobody realm _no _humandeath was beautiful. It was just a necessity.

No wonder some nobodies became attached to their prey. Heart or no, on occasions it could be very hard to kill humans. They were innocent and oblivious and so very naïve – their entire existence poised on the brink of destruction, and yet they still flourished. Weed like, they sprouted from the soil time and time again; that fierce determination and fighting spirit was probably what drew death gods to the human realm in the first place, like moths to the flame.

Demyx had developed 'feelings' for that brown-haired girl. Or at least, that was that Naminé was spreading, Naminé being Xemnas' secretary of sorts. She wrote the letters and licked the envelopes and stored them neatly away in filing cabinets for later reference.

The lapdog.

Demyx, however, had a different view on the matter. He had argued quite fiercely (or as fiercely as Demyx _could _argue) that this was simply 'Not The Case'. In fact, he was so het up over his false accusation that the rebuttal had earned capital letters.

Demyx had _never_ laid an eye, let alone a finger, upon the brown-haired girl's person. Rather, he had been keeping tabs on several people around the Alaska area for the past day or so, and his last handful of victims had all been in their late seventies; why was it that they immediately blamed _him _whenever something went amiss? He was no scapegoat, and would not lie idle while they accused him of everything because Naminé lost some paperwork.

At least, that's what Demyx said.

None of them had believed Demyx. Not at the time, anyway. Who else could have done it? Who else could have been so foolhardy as to reap the soul of a human that they had _feelings _for?

Gods of Death could not, as a rule, kill such people. While their bodies would fall limp and lifeless, their souls would remain anchored to the earth via a bond between nobody and human; in other words, they became ghosts.

Ghosts were problematic.

Not even Luxord had believed Demyx's whining, for he was frequently referred to as 'immature', 'childish' and even _'stupid'_. Demyx had probably created more ghosts than all other eleven nobodies put together (Naminé didn't count, because she so rarely dirtied her hands – usually she just passed on messages and gave information).

It _must _have been Demyx.

That was the only logical explanation.

* * *

When Roxas awoke it was not to a pleasant sensation. The inside of his skull hurt, almost as though twin hooks had been dug deep into either side; the bones definitely _felt _fractured, what with the sheer intensity of his headache. He found shortly after he could not swallow, either – saliva tasted of cotton wool, stifling, and it was with some self disgust that he turned his head and spat onto the carpet.

Shuddering weakly, Roxas made to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand-

-and then promptly hissed due to a severe, excruciating _agony_. Oh God, his arms – his legs – his neck – his spine – his poor – abused – head – were on _fire_. **Hell**fire. It _burnt_ relentlessly, playing again and again on a permanent loop.

Teeth were tearing into every inch of Roxas' skin, hideous fangs and a slathering mouth – it gaped like a canyon, stretching wide and biting hard, row upon row of glistening incisors.

Oh God, it _hurt _so much – it hurt it hurt it hurt…

Eventually the recycling process allowed for the products to become stale, much like birds regurgitating food for their young; finally Roxas was able to pull himself upright, a sick and dizzy feeling capturing his senses after that sudden onslaught of pain.

Nausea.

Roxas didn't feel horrible - he felt goddamn _awful_.

Still shuddering, his head moved in a slow arc to spit on his carpet once more, a desperate attempt to clear his throat, clear his head, clear his mind. It didn't work; the ever so subtle movement had jarred something within him once more, for a few seconds later everything was _burning_ again – it hurt so much he couldn't even open his mouth to scream.

Exhausted, the boy allowed himself to fall forth from the sanctuary of his bed with a _thump_, spine juddering upon impact with the floor; his head now too heavy to hold up; it lolled to his chest like a paperweight.

From his new vantage point on the floor Roxas was able to snatch glimpses of his reflection in the mirror with little strain. The sight that fell before him only proved in turning his stomach once more.

Staring back at him from behind the glass was a hideous _creature_. It was all hunched up with huge circles under its eyes, its hair was messy, its face was pale and its fingers were trembling.

What would Olette think now?

_Olette_.

She had always loved the night sky, had she not? And although the blond boy could not properly gauge the time, for darkness was a rather permanent fixture in his room, he guessed it must have been about two or three in the morning. If he wished to cement this theory he need only look at the clock on his bedside table, yet that seemed to take too much _effort_. No, he was much more comfortable lying there…

…God, his back hurt.

He lay like a broken toy, moving only to spit out more phlegm and that cotton-ball taste. Such actions were always accompanied by pain, but he learnt to accommodate them by pressing his fingertips against his eyelids; somehow, and he was not sure _how_, this seemed to lessen the hurt.

Eventually, so loath he was to sit there with nothing to do, his thoughts began to circle back to Olette. She was (had been) simply _amazing_ in every single sense of the word.

She could bake cookies, she could paint, she could sing, she could dance, she could write poetry _and_ she could do long division in her head.

Roxas, on the other hand, could only _sit there_.

Sit there and look pathetic.

Olette hadn't been pathetic, though. It had been she who brought Roxas out his shell, introduced him to her friends, made him interact with _people_; it had been she who had changed his view on the world for something brighter, something better, something _happier_.

_If it's such a happy world then why is Olette dead?_

It was a _great_ feeling of depression – a sudden, all-encompassing wave – that finally spurred him onto his feet, swaying drunkenly; the walk down the hallway was one he could barely remember, although it resulted in a lot of pain, for he kept banging into things.

Inanimate objects should learn to stay put – somebody could hurt themselves.

Cursing one of Aerith's favourite vases (it just _had_ to get in his way), he pushed open the bathroom door and staggered inside. A sudden wave of nausea claimed him once more mid-way across the room, and he allowed himself to collapse at the bathroom sink, taps digging into his chest.

Breathing shallowly, he managed to hoist himself up on shaking arms to meet his reflection eye to eye. Close up, it was even worse than it had appeared before. The black circles were _huge_, seeming to swallow his eyes; his skin was pasty and ashen, almost as if all colour had been drained from within it; his hair was greasy and discoloured, sticking out in all directions like a porcupine's spikes.

Olette had looked pretty even when the car had hit her.

Everyone had screamed, somebody called 911 (somebody who _wasn't _Roxas) and when the ambulance came he hadn't gone with her, he hadn't held her hand, he hadn't even _cared_.

He had just walked away.

The boy gasped, staring down at his hands – the hands of murder?; without realising it, the trembling digits had seized the nearest pointy object – a razorblade. How original. His knuckles turned marble white, just as cold; the point of the blade began to cut and sting.

What the hell was he _doing_?

Almost instantaneously his head spun with questions – spun with _sickness_. He was _very_ sick, sick in the head – and with it, that pain; that horrible, agonizing, _searing _pain. The icy blade nestled in his hand held nothing to this, for within seconds he was back against the taps, struggling to breath, struggling to think…

He knew what he was doing was wrong…

And yet he couldn't stop himself.

He was being so _weak _– so fucking weak.

But it hurt, too.

He didn't want to hurt like that anymore.

In a few seconds, it would all be over; the flash of a knife, the stroke of a pen.

_Roxas Hikari.  
Suicide._

* * *

Rikku had been making a sandwich when it had happened. It had been a _damn good _sandwich, too, many slices of white bread with alternating layers of peanut butter, banana custard, cheese and cucumber and – for some _strange _reason – Belgian chocolate. Melted, of course.

Thus, the sheer awesomess of the aforementioned sandwich only added to the immense tragedy when it was knocked out of her hands and landed with a _splat!_ on the kitchen floor.

"My sandwich!" the blonde sprite squealed in alarm, voice easily topping two-hundred decibels in volume. "I didn't even get to take a bite out of it! Not one! This isn't fair!"

"Life isn't fair," Paine grunted, fingers affixed firmly to Rikku's wrist lest she fly away. "Suck it up."

"Well you don't have to _manhandle _me!" Rikku cried out in protest, snatching her arm back before Paine could throw that away on the floor as well. "Oww! Look at all those red marks, you _meanie_! Couldn't you have phoned me first? You know, so you wouldn't destroy my sandwi-"

"Rikku, this is more important that your bloody sandwich!"

"_Nothing's _more important than my sandwich. Eight layers, I'll have you know. EIGHT. Building that took me all day and you killed it!"

Cue vain pop.

"Rikku. If you don't shut up I'm going to kill _you_! This is serious."

"How serious?"

"Not very. I mean, it's just the entire human world that's at stake, you _moron_!"

"Oh. That bad, huh?" Rikku frowned, flitting along after Paine. "Fuck. Lady Luck is _such _a bitch!"

* * *

**a.n: helll this chapter is long, took me forever so you BETTER like it. i combed through for spelling errors, but i have a horrible niggly feeling there are MILLIONS of them left in there. if you see any, please let me know of their whereabouts.**

**& so, onto yuna, paine and rikku. i sense some light-hearted comedy coming from them. a welcome break from all this wangst, at any rate**

**  
k, that's all from me. peace outtt, d00ds ;D  
**


	4. thorns

**chapter four  
**_thorns_

* * *

"Riku…"

Her voice was soft, fluttering precariously on the breeze. Olette herself was looking rather dainty that night, pale skin and large eyes seeming to compliment her hesitant words almost hand-in-hand.

"Hmn?" Riku muttered - a very poor attempt at a reply.

Even so, Olette seemed content with this. Shortly after the noise of affirmation – it was far too garbled to be called a word, as such – she dared to speak further than the opening two syllables of her question.

"Roxas _will _get my message, won't he? He won't…" And here she paused, as though the mere thought was enough to kill her. Who knew? She was so dainty, maybe it would.

"He can't blame himself forever. He just can't – right?"

Riku was not quite sure what to say. Should he hurt her feelings, informing her that such a thing was _entirely _possible? Humans were not two dimensional. They were complex, with a vast range of emotions spanning out even further than the darkest depths of the galaxy. Her words _might _touch Roxas, but then again…

Maybe he was too far gone to care anymore.

Rather than voicing any of this – it was not like Riku to voice any of his internal monologues, anyway – the boy merely replied with a "Right," head pressed against his window.

The cold was inviting, glass frosted with a fine layer of raindrops, and it was with mild intrigue that he watched the trees outside flail wildly in the breeze. Thick branches were beating against their neighbours, some threatening to tap against his window in a way that would've given a young child nightmares.

Riku, on the other hand, had never been the recipient of a nightmare.

Mainly because he never slept.

He had tried several times before – and he had, he really _had_. The psychiatrists had assigned all sorts of pills, spanning through the rainbow as each one dropped his case in despair. A yellow one in the morning and a handful of blue, green and purple after dinner, a red one before he went to bed.

They never worked.

He supposed the masterminds behind said pills had not factored in a restless nobody who liked to paint her nails at three in the morning and an endless string of unhappy spirits from beyond the grave into their design plans and blueprints.

He supposed the physiatrists had never encountered a case like his before.

Even so, Larxene and Olette (and God only knew how many else) aside, Riku was not one prone to sleeping anyway. He was simple and efficient in everything he did, and sleep was an unnecessary hindrance to a boy like him. There was _always _something to do, neatly lined up in Riku's mind in order of importance, and the time of day should have no bearings on that. Maybe he slept a _little _– three to four hours, approximately – but otherwise, he was always alert, attentive and oh so _busy_.

Right now, he was staring out his window and pondering what to do tomorrow. Maybe meet up with Kairi? Such plans could not be left until the last minute – meticulous planning was the key to success.

_And_ storms were very pretty.

April showers…

"I wonder what it'll be like…" Olette sighed.

In a silent acknowledgement of her words, Riku tilted his head slightly against the glass. It was a motion that clearly signalled 'elaborate', one eye fixed on Olette and the other still gazing at the dark blue sky outside.

Hmn… Heavy clouds, torrential rain – looked like the beginnings of a thunderstorm. Maybe he should begin counting?

_One Mississippi, two Mississippi… _

"You know what I mean. Heaven," the brunette continued, hair cascading over Riku's pillow like a waterfall. Spread out across Riku's bed, staring at the plain white ceiling – there was little else to do but ponder the future. A million what ifs, all shining within her mind's eye like a galaxy of stars and supernovas.

"Heaven?" Riku inquired, curiosity evident behind that question. It was rare to find ghosts so confident about their ultimate destination – most of them seemed rather daunted by the whole prospect.

Cry babies.

_Three Mississippi, four Mississippi…_

"Yes. Heaven," Olette repeated, eyes glassy. With nothing better to affix her attention upon, she allowed herself to stare at the ceiling so much so that the white began to run like wet paint, blurring slightly at the edges. With a little bit of imagination she could have been on a cloud or in Antarctica or even…

Or even a _hospital_.

She shuddered, vague memories stirring at the back of her mind; the squeal of tyres, red flashing lights, constant reassurances, empty promises ("she's going to be okay, she's going to be okay"), syringes breaking skin. Pain. The steady beat of a heart monitor trickling away into oblivion…

_Beep beep beep beeeeeeeep._

_Five Mississippi, six Mississippi…_

Crash.

Within those few seconds of impact the horizon seemed to exploded – red, orange, yellow, harsh and unchanging. It was a glorious sight to behold - a mad rush of lights and splendour that send his heartbeat reeling.

Doubtless, there would be any number of tragic stories tomorrow; all delivered to Riku via a man in a clip on tie and starched suit on the channel four news. And Riku would eat his breakfast, spoon dipping graceful arcs through his milk and cereal, admiring the flash as its sleek metal surface caught the light – and _wonder_.

Trees would be felled, tiles pulled off roofs, perhaps a few old buildings toppled.

Riku grinned a small, twisted little grin. It looked most gruesome set against the dark atmosphere of his bedroom, shadows slipping between every gap and hollow of his pale face until he was barely distinguishable from the darkness himself. Cold burrowed into his skin like worms, fingers slipping up against the smooth glass, tracing shapes.

The weather really _was_ most tempestuous at this time of year.

"My parents are very religious, you know," Olette murmured, demeanour unchanging despite the violent turn of weather. She was a most sensible girl, and in that fact Riku found some small vestiges of happiness – at least she was not one of those insufferable people whose fears were rooted deeply in trivial things. Thunderstorms were just a work of nature. "They would tell me that if you're good, you go to heaven. I tried to be good." And then, almost as an afterthought, "do _you _know if I'll go to heaven?"

Riku rolled his eyes lazily, barely bothering to comprehend her question.

"No."

He _didn't _know – why bother dwelling on the fact? He could always find out after he died himself.

"I hope I go to heaven – or at least some place happier than Earth," Olette mused, words fragmented somewhat by the storm outside. Those poor trees looked quite ready to keel over and die, yet they hung on. Another crack of lightening sounded, this time seeming so close Olette was sure it was inside her own skull. Still the trees clung on, petulant like little children. "Earth can be quite depressing at times."

"Yet beautiful," Riku couldn't help but add, tilting his head to the window. A horizon, burning against the sharp cookie-cutter silhouettes of trees and houses. And everything was ablaze…

"Yet beautiful," the brunette agreed, pushing herself up against Riku's white-on-white bed sheets. She wondered how he managed to keep so _clean _– her own room had always seemed to be an unofficial shrine to dirt, despite her mother's relentless attempts to cultivate it with some rubber gloves and a can of disinfectant. There was just always so much to _do _she didn't have enough time to tidy – nothing had a place, for she just threw it down and hoped against hope it would still be there tomorrow. Organised chaos. Much like the storm.

Everything found its way back to her eventually.

Likewise, tomorrow the storm would most likely revert back to sunshine and lollipops, leaving not a trace of its night-time ravages save a chipped roof tile or three.

"You're scared," Riku said softly, quite out of the blue.

"Yes. I'm scared," Olette replied, squeezing her eyelids together. With a groan, she flopped back against the boy's bed, limp and pliant like a Raggedy Ann doll. Limbs flailing, she didn't bother to re-position herself into a more ladylike look of grace and decorum. Who cared, anyway?

Life _wasn't _orderly.

Life was twists and turns and burning horizons and new surprises round every corner. Why should she allow her body language to reflect a thing so contradictory to the very essence of existence?

Besides, sprawling was always nice.

After a busy day – school, friends, homework, extra-curricular actives – Olette would delight in kicking off her shoes, pouring a hot chocolate and falling onto her unmade, floral-print bed with a 'thwumph' and a 'sigh'. Perhaps she would even add a good book or fairy story to the equation, if in need for some well deserved fantasy.

She was sort of like a tower princess in a made-for-TV drama; reading to escape, she was happy to dream – to break away. And yet now, stood eye-to-eye against such an opportunity, she did not know whether she dared to take the first step.

_A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step._

Fridge magnet quotes.

Her mother was always rather fond of them.

"I want some sort of certainty in my life... Death," she corrected herself, a few stray giggles seeping from the corners of her lips. Finding humour in everything was simply her forte. "I liked dreaming, but that's what they were. Dreams. Just dreams. I never expected to be faced with such a problem."

"It's not your problem where you go. Other people decide that for you," Riku frowned, brain flipping back to the Olette of a few hours ago. Back then she had been the epitome of joy, all wide-eyes and cute smiles at the prospect of Roxas – _her_ Roxas – freed from his mental torment and anguish. Look up 'joyful' in the dictionary and her picture would've been there, hands clasped and face delightfully cherubic.

Now, she was just pale and worn. It seemed as though, in the excitement of the previous situation, she had not fully grasped the concept of death – to be dead. She couldn't help but think of such unpleasentries now, for she had precious else to contemplate.

She was not going to ask Riku how he kept his room so spotless, at any rate.

A distinct feeling plagued the back of her mind that bleach played some sort of key role in that, at any rate.

"I know…" Olette nodded, comfortable to see naught but her own darkness. Opening her eyes seemed to take thoroughly too much effort, at any rate. "But… I'm still scared… I don't like having no control over my life."

Well, such an eventuality was only to be expected.

She didn't even _have_ a life anymore.

* * *

Axel truthfully couldn't remember the last time he had been to the human world, and that was saying something. The words 'Axel' and 'truth' were rarely used together in the same sentence unless, of course, the word 'truth' was preceded by the prefix 'un'.

It was common knowledge that most nobodies disliked being tied to the very black-and-white mental processes of humans, and the red-head was one of them. Intrinsic ideas like 'truth' and 'justice' were meaningless to gods of death.

In their barren realm they would reside, seated up thrones carved of blood and bone. Eyes narrowed, hungry and searching, their pens would flash, a body would crumple, and one more heart was stopped forever.

Such divine power put them above humanity, and all their superstitions and beliefs. Let their 'truth' stay on Earth and rot, just like everything else in that accursed realm.

Everything lives only to die.

Even ideals.

Sometimes a nobody would return from the human realm with a smirk adorning their face, claws bloody and eyes shining. They would gather the others to sit on their thrones, leaning forwards to tell stories.

Human traditions, celebrations, religions, rules, concepts, notions (and sometimes even children's fairytales) were taken, retold, and then torn apart. Their zombie lips would crack open to reveal teeth and smiles, grins and laughter, outright mockery.

What were _humans_, with their lives so firmly grounded in belief?

Conscience, trust, redemption, forgiveness.

Love.

They were all nonsense.

The red-headed nobody found it all incredibly _amusing _(albeit a tad confusing).

Humans.

What silly, fickle creatures they were, placing so much hope in things with no value. What of food, water and shelter? You could not eat 'love'. You could not farm 'truth'. You could not wear 'justice'.

Pointless. All pointless.

Grinning like a Halloween pumpkin, eyes aglow against the backdrop of starry night skies, Axel came to perch upon a lamppost just outside the boy's house. Despite the fact he was intangible to the torrential rain, he still found his leathery wings drawn about himself like shroud.

Really now, the 'haunted night' backdrop was just perfect for his undead symphony of pen-on-paper and sawdust filled cackles.

_What a nice night…_

Didn't humans tell stories about those who walked the night? Ones who sucked blood? Vampires...

Axel was more deadly than a vampire.

"Kekekekeke…"

The moon hung low and pale above the silhouette of buildings, quite an eerie sight for all its splendour. The ghostly light it emitted caught upon the hunched form of Axel, lit up like a bad horror movie yet invisible to the eyes of others…

It was just him and the moon.

And Roxas.

"Kekekekeke," he continued to wheeze, mouth unhinged like a trapdoor, gaping open like a horrible wound. "Kekekekekekekekekeke…"

The laugh was an unearthly laugh, one that seemed to belong only in childish nightmares and frantic delusions. It was made of cracked lips and a dry throat, bloody eyes and glinting teeth. So many teeth. _Too many teeth_. They were sharp, pointed, jutting out from the gums like fencing rapiers, knifes, syringes…

("My, my, grandma, what big teeth you have!" Wasn't that a fairytale Demyx had spun more than four centuries ago? The bizarre nobody – more bizarre than most – had a strange penchant for such stories.)

It was surely quite ironic, then, that the pen in his hand was much more dangerous.

(The wolf never had this much power.)

_Roxas Hikari._

_Suicide_

_Crippled with guilt due to the recent death of his girlfriend, is overwhelmed by emotion and slits his wrists in his bathroom, two thirty a.m._

Love was a strange thing, Axel couldn't help but muse. Hell, all _emotion_ was strange – just the concept made his head spin (though, according to Saïx, that was no hard feat).

It was, in essence, the key to mass genocide. Emotion, when wild and untapped, could do _terrible _things. Those childish fairytales that Demyx liked so much, the ones comprised of 'true love' and 'happily ever after', did not even begin to compensate for all the wars, hate and suffering it spawned.

Nobodies did not kill like humans, of course they didn't. They were two separate entities, two different species – two sides of a coin.

Nobodies killed meticulously, clinically, almost like machines. There was no revenge behind their actions. No moral obligation between right and wrong. No thoughts or feelings whatsoever.

In the nobody realm, 'right' and 'wrong' failed to exist.

It was merely a case of 'all living things will die. We are the ones who make them die.'

Theirs was a constant trade, names for souls, a pact almost as old as the Earth itself. Probably older. Moreover, it was an agreement that served to link both realms; a way that allowed them to co-exist harmoniously. Some divine being had marked out the human realm for death and destruction many, many years ago and, as such, the means had been spawned, the ways shortly after.

Enter the nobodies.

Some countries and faiths preferred to invent their own names - Shinigamis, the Grim Reaper, Yama, Mot, Thanatos, Morana – but they were all, in essence, the same.

They were all referring to the same creatures.

Axel supposed he felt rather proud – his only achievement was to be created a nobody, and yet that led him instantly to worldwide fame. Everybody feared death. Everybody recognised death. Everybody succumbed to death.

As is the way of the world, and those that lay beyond it.

Bloody eyes, notebooks of death, a constant routine – one name in, one soul out. And repeat. Who'd have thought that the taking of life was so… So _boring_?

Yes, as strange as it may be, Axel was bored. He almost envied the humans, and looked up them in a rather green-eyed sort of way. The final outcome was decided from their very first breath, yet they were able to do whatever they pleased in between. What would Axel do?

He would continue to exist and exist and exist, writing names. Taking lives. And, ultimately, accomplishing nothing.

It was not that Axel wished he was a human – far from it. The idea of looking down all others was one that appealed to arrogant nature, and besides – death itself was not an appealing notion. Emotions were not appealing, either.

Emotions meant hearts.

The burden of one's entire existence falling upon a single muscle was crazy; the unseen puppeteer who designed everything must have been drunk when tracing down the initial sketches for humanity.

They were so weak and venerable, naught to keep going but the blood in their veins and the hearts in their chests.

Nobodies were far superior to humans without those cumbersome things, heavy like rocks – the mere thought of possessing one made the nobody shudder in disgust.

Yes, Axel decided, humans were pathetic. Humans and their silly ideals, with their silly stories, with their silly hearts and their silly hearts…

But watching silly things could be rather amusing, no?

And…

And surely Roxas was dead by _now_?

"Kekekekeke…" Axel began to cackle, and this time it was even more manic than the preceding bouts of mirth. It was like no sound any person had ever heard before; nails on chalkboards and claps of thunder. It was a sound that turned dreams to nightmares, nightmares to madness, madness to insanity. Films had been written to honour such laughs, teenagers with empty eyes covered in crimson. Music had been composed, and campfire stories of vampires sucking blood…

But Axel had made it very clear that he _wasn't _a vampire.

Axel was a god of death.

A bored god of death.

No vampire – wicked witch – fallen angel – evil spirit – bloated zombie – rotten corpse – slathering werewolf… Not even _Beezlebub _herself could ever hope to compare.

Not a snowball's chance in hell.

* * *

Roxas' mind seem to leave him the second pliant skin met with cold metal. It was with an almost detached interest that he surveyed the current situation, blade biting down harshly upon a delicate vein.

No longer was he conflicted between two choices; his mind had been made up, solid as the ground he walked on.

Nothing was going to stop him.

But hmn – the blade dug a little deeper, though not deep enough to mar with crimson. Pictures were now flashing his mind at an alarming rate; blood, pain, white lights, Aerith, blood, slipping, screams, Sora, cries, tears, flowers, stars, brown hair, strawberry shampoo. Olette.

Car.

There had been blood when she died - _so much blood_. Roxas felt as though he were drowning… It was almost as if the thick, red liquid had burnt through his retinas and onto the back of his brain, scarring.

He wasn't cutting deep enough to scar yet, was he? Though… He shook a little at these faint memories, a small bite of pain lacing its way through warm skin. Wherever the blade touched, cold soon followed.

They had taken Olette to hospital, of course. Roxas wasn't there – Roxas had run away. Perhaps he had been too _scared_, he thought with a sneer. Lip curled, the boy could only glare at his reflection in the mirror.

He looked like hell.

Moreover, what with the blade pressed flush against the inviting stretch of skin across his wrist and that unsteady way his chest rose and fell, he looked _crazy _to boot.

So… They took Olette to hospital, did everything they could, no doubt. Nobody wanted to admit it…

But you can't save someone who's already dead.

Olette had been dead when that car hit her, and even though she may have been breathing – on that road, legs back bent, covered in sanguine – it was apparent she was fighting a losing battle.

Roxas had died the moment Olette had, in a sense.

Now she was stiff and cold.

Roxas remembered when he would touch her, comfort her, dance with her to slow songs and wind his fingers through her hair…

("You look gorgeous, babe.")

She had looked gorgeous even in _death_; a slab of meat on a hospital bed.

Maybe, the boy wondered, if he had gone with her and held her hand… If he had not run away… Maybe he could've planted a kiss on her icy lips, cup her once-rosy cheeks and whisper sweet nothings in her ear… Maybe, just like all of Aerith's fairytales, she would've come _back_.

Or maybe, with his support, she could've fought her inner demons - the things that kept her snared to such insurmountable darkness – and staged a miraculous recovery.

_But she'd already stopped breathing…_

Fairytales don't apply in real life, Roxas.

But that was fine – that was fine, fine, fine – because Shakespearean tragedy would be most fitting here. People thought of them reverently, of Romeo and his Juliet, and how they died. Together. A fitting end for such star-crossed lovers…

Maybe Aerith would not mind so much – would even begin to _understand_ – if his actions were taken from one of her favourite plays? She had been to see it no less than nine times, always returned weeping…

But she _did _love a good story.

The blade pressed deeper.

_Plip. Plip. Plip._

The boy blinked slightly, staring down at the porcelain sink as though amazed at the delicate workings of his body. _Blood _– how ingenious. It was beautiful, in a morbid sort of way, spreading patterns like a child's kaleidoscope…

Olette had left a beautiful corpse.

Would he?

_Plip. Plip. Plip._

Fingers taking hold of the wicked piece of metal more securely, he pulled back and exhaled slowly. The cut was deep, not deep enough to puncture any main veins or arteries, but still…

_He was going to do this._

His fate had been mapped out from the beginning – from the very moment that driver couldn't find the handbrake, from the very moment Olette had crossed the road, from the very moment she had screamed – impact – fall – smack – sobs – blood – no breathing.

Death.

Roxas felt as though he were the reckless driver now, speeding along at 100 mph. Nothing but him and the road… And the idea of what lay beyond it. As if spurred on by curiosity, he put his foot on the pedal and went forwards, forwards, forwards – brakes were not needed, because stopping was simply not an option.

He was going fast, too fast, and it felt good. It felt _good _to know that he would see Olette again, see her smile, waiting with open arms and the end of the road – dead end.

Ha.

_Dead_.

Roxas bit his lower lip, allowed his eyes to fall upon the bloody basin once more, and then raised the blade down in an arc – vertical, main veins severed, blood all over. It was almost like looking at a diagram in biology and making notes; you can't stab here, don't put that there, make notes of all the areas shaded blue…

Strange.

He'd never thought those diagrams would ever come in _useful_.

Shallow breathing – eyes wide – knuckles clenching – blade glinting – blood dripping – explosion, an… an explosion?…

Yes, of white – he couldn't see, couldn't think – a clap like a gunshot.

Falling.

White.

Nothing.

Was he…

Was this…

Was he _dead_?

Well, that was anticlimactic.

The boy grimaced, waiting for the mist to clear, wondering… Would he see his body, lying on the floor like a broken fairytale, last act of a play? Would he perhaps see Aerith, screaming and crying, knees on the ground, dress all bloody? Would he see _her_…?

Already his eyesight was coming back, blinking quickly to dispel invading spots of white. Hmn, that _was_ funny… With the return of his vision, a dull ache in his wrist was also spreading – a faint _plip, plip, plip_ – distant rumblings, sounded like thunder… Sounded like laughter…

If his Sunday school teacher had been very much mistaken, you weren't meant to feel pain in heaven.

So this was hell, then?

Was he going to be punished?

Punished…

In what appeared to be his own bathroom?

Yes, there it was – everything was coming back, white spots dissipating. The white sink and toilet, seat up (classical Sora), obnoxious, seahorse-print shower curtains, shelves upon shelves stacked with Aerith's hair stuff, that impossibly _ugly_ rug grandma had knitted last Christmas, the faint smell of lavender and disinfectant, the tiled floor…

Tiles.

The tiles were cold.

But hell was meant to be warm.

"Kekekekeke…"

Roxas moaned, wondering if he was hearing voices – having a nightmare? Perhaps he'd passed out, or this really _was _the afterlife (pretty crappy sort of afterlife, really) and he was a ghost, a zombie, a vampire, a…

What was he?

He was lying on the bathroom floor. And it was cold. And his wrist hurt. And he felt vaguely sick. And he really wanted a glass of milk. And his head was spinning like a merry-go-round – bright colours, flashing lights, the sound of rain beating on the outside window.

_He was still alive._

Must've been a clap of thunder, lightening (in his disoriented state he couldn't be bothered to discern the two), something like that – something to blind him temporarily, send him to the floor… Not the afterlife.

Roxas didn't really_ feel_ like committing suicide anymore. Rather, his legs hurt and his head hurt and, oh God, he was going to be sick and his _all over _hurt, everywhere and anywhere hurt, hurt, hurt.

Roxas just wanted to go to bed.

Urgh…

He groaned, attempting to pick himself up – God, no, bad idea. Already he was on the floor again, breathing stilted, wrist _burning _and fuck, what the hell had been thinking? Therein lie the root of the problem, he thought with a vicious snarl – he hadn't been thinking at all. How would suicide bring Olette back?

And he'd always _hated _Shakespeare.

Now he wasn't sure whether he was groaning due to his achy limbs or self loathing, although…

Oh no…

He was going to have to clean the bathroom, wasn't he? He couldn't very well leave it peppered with blood – what would Sora say? What would _Aerith _say? Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. And swearing _wasn't _making it any better.

Alright, alright, before he cleaned the room he obviously needed to get up, couldn't have Aerith or Sora walking in on him… Imagine…

_So _get up, _then._

With a pained groan the boy pressed his hands against the floor, inwardly wincing at the cold – alright, burning pain plus cold equalled _hurt_. Just push yourself up _slowly_, carefully… Chest heaving, heart thumping as though it may burst from his ribcage, the boy reached up and grabbed the sink, knees buckling as he tried to haul himself upright…

Urgh, the sink was slippery – coated in blood?

Suicide.

How _weak_.

How stupid, moronic, idiotic, childis-

"Kekekekeke… He's still alive. That's interesting."

Roxas' face blanched, what little colour it may have had draining almost instantaneously. Eyes wide and frenzied, the boy spun round a full one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and _yes _– he was still upright, still standing, albeit a little shakily. How embarrassing it would be to stagger in front of this… In front of this…

Well damn. Now that the blond had gotten a closer look at his intruder, he wasn't really sure what to call him other than 'this'. There really seemed to be no words. Or maybe there _were_, and his English teacher had been right when she said he needed to branch out with his vocabulary.

Alright, Roxas. Keep breathing, don't stop breathing, in and out, in and out, in and _ohmygod. _The thing was laughing.

How to describe it, where to begin…? Roxas wasn't quite, for every little teensy-tiny little detail was strange in some way or another. It was a bit like looking at a Christmas tree and trying to decide which decoration was the best. His eyes had simply been dominated by the full picture, and wasn't sure where to look first.

_So look at parts of it, then._

Yes, that seemed like a good idea. Roxas' brain was usually sensible. Unless, of course, it was telling him to slash his wrists. But that was _another _matter altogether. The blade was lying on the floor now, forgotten. Unless it started to tap-dance, Roxas doubted he'd be focusing on that anymore, not with…

Not with this thing…

Alright, breathe in, breathe out, stop shaking. Don't let it know you're scared. It can _smell _fear, like a dog – it certainly didn't look human.

Start at the face and work your way down.

"Kekekekeke…"

His eyes were large and acid-green, splashed liberally with malevolence like the colours on an artist's easel - his skin was pale, almost sickly, and was stretched roughly across the facial features – sharp nose, high cheekbones – like an elastic band, taught and unhealthy - anorexia, rather – for the man was skinny, impossibly skinny. He seemed to be made purely of knees and elbows and awkward joints – definitely _not _the sort of person (creature) you'd ask for a cuddle.

It was the hair that jarred in Roxas' mind most, however. Oh, and _what _hair. It just exploded, quite literally _exploded_, from all sides of his scalp like tomato ketchup forest fire, seeming to _smoulder _against the pale blue tiles and open window…

The open window.

So this freak – this weird, anorexic, clown-like _freak _– had climbed through his bathroom window. Climbed through his bathroom window, no doubt in order to steal his television and other such valuables, and…

And watch Roxas bleed to death.

That was sick.

That was really, really _sick._

Roxas began to shudder at this thought, stepping backwards slightly. The smirk the man-monster gave him seemed very predatory, and he couldn't help but be concerned for his own safety.

"Y-You… Get out my house," Roxas commanded, hoping against hope he sounded braver than he felt. He supposed the involuntary flutter of his voice had already given him away, however.

"Kekekekeke…"

Yep.

This thing was about as fooled as he was – that is to say, not very. Maybe Roxas should take an acting class? Hell, perhaps judo and karate would be more appropriate, given the current situation…

"He's looking at me as though he can see me…" the man muttered, as if to himself. He began to pace in a rather distracted manner, Roxas flinched every time he approached. The man, however, paid no heed. "That's also interesting. _Very _interesting…"

Oh.

And the monster was _also _under the impression that he was invisible.

Well, wasn't that just _dandy_.

"What do you mean, 'like I can see you'? Of course I can see you!" Roxas hissed, subconsciously attempting to keep his voice down. If his family walked in to a sink full of blood and a razorblade…

Alright, what the hell was he thinking now? Surely Sora and Aerith would be more concerned that this stranger – lunatic – burglar – rapist – madman-

(Zombie?

Maybe Roxas had been watching too many horror films lately)

-was roaming around their house, seeming convinced that he was evanescent.

But that didn't mean awkward questions wouldn't ensue when he was gone…

"…Hmn," the man replied, eyes seeming to flash via the lights from outside. It was almost as though he were pondering something. Though, obviously, his eventual conclusion seemed to be insufficient, for he waved it aside with a toothy grin. A _very _toothy grin. "No. You can't see me. Nobody can."

"Are you _crazy _or something?!" Roxas near-shouted, instantly breaking his previous resolution. This thing was _annoying_. And _scary_. And looked like it wanted to eat him. But, most of all, it was plain pissing him off. "Fuck _yes_ I can see you! What do you think you are? A ghost?!"

"No. I'm not a ghost."

"Then what-?"

"I already told you," the thing replied, sounded rather exasperated what with all his explanations. Which, Roxas couldn't help but notice, explained _nothing._ "I don't exist."

"What the fuck do you mean, you 'don't exist'? God, you really _are_ mad!"

"Not as mad as you. I'm not the one hallucinating."

"But I'm not hallucinating!"

"First sign of madness, talking to your own head…"

"You're not in my head!" Roxas exploded, suddenly fearing not for Aerith or Sora's reactions if they awoke to his screaming. Surely they'd be _just_ as disturbed when they saw the monster? Perhaps even more so? At least the thing didn't want to hurt him – not yet, anyway. It seemed quite content to play its fucked-up mind games.

"Oh, but I _am_. I don't exist."

Shaking with fury, the boy reached forwards and stabbed a finger at the thing's direction, nailing directly in-between its two eyes. "Of course you fucking exist, you lunatic! I can _see_ you!"

"You can?" The monster blinked slowly, looking slightly confused.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"I've only been telling you for the past ten minutes, you creep!" Roxas shouted, eyes narrowed. "Now. Get out of my house."

"No. I don't think I will," the thing replied, seeming rather happy to stand there and wind Roxas up. As if to clarify the boy's suspicions, that maddening smile snapped back into place, teeth glinting like knives.

_Knives_…

With a quick surge of logical thought, the boy bent down and grabbed the fallen razorblade. It was still peppered at the tip with his own blood, but such trivial things did not matter. All that mattered that scaring the damn monster away. At least he felt safer with a weapon to hand – that way he could be assured that all his threats were not empty. He would use it if needs be, he knew damn well he would.

So why was the thing _laughing_?

"If you don't go away I'm going to stab you," Roxas hissed, voice leaking with venom.

The thing merely gave a lop-sided grin and few cackles, acting for all the world as though Roxas had told some sort of witty joke.

"I _mean _it, you… You _thing_! If you don't leave I swear I'll stab you!"

"It won't work," the monster replied lazily, idly beginning to examine his nails for dirt. He seemed to be acting as though the threat of a razorblade between his ribs was below him, somehow, and this made Roxas even madder.

"Of _course_ it's going to work!"

"No. It won't. Buuttt if you still wish to try, please go ahead," the thing muttered, still picking out pieces of dirt from under its nails. He spoke in a rather bored manner, as though Roxas had lost his entertainment value. It was kind of reminiscent of Roxas' Algebra teacher, actually.

That was probably why he did it.

With a scream of "you bastard!" the boy ran forwards, moving the blade back in a graceful arc as the monster… The monster stood there and did absolutely _nothing_. The boy grunted, waiting to feel flesh – blood – pain – screams – and yet… And yet…

With a wild yelp, the blade continued to soar round in a loop as though he had not come into contact with anything, despite the fact the monster stood only two feet away from him…

That wasn't _possible_.

Not for a human, anyway.

Roxas had no time to ponder such miracles, however, for – propelled round to complete his revolution – the blade flew from his grip and landed, with a sick _crunch_, against a bottle of shampoo.

There was an explosion of glass – Roxas screamed, ducking for cover – the thing grinned eerily – and the sound of footsteps, on the landing, door jerking open to reveal the concerned face of-

"Roxas! What are you _doing_?"

"Uh… Sora…" the blond replied meekly, unfurling himself from the floor. Cold bit into his skin, glass in his hair and on his clothes, pink _stuff _scattered across the floor… "What are…?"

With a sigh, the brunet at the doorway marched in and began to pick the bits of shampoo bottle out Roxas' hair, tutting all the while.

"You know, it's a good thing all your screaming and shouting didn't wake Aerith up," Sora muttered, all the while raking his fingers across Roxas' scalp in a manner that could only be described as _brutal_. "She's had a busy day today – guess it took its toll on her, passed out like a log- Ow!" the boy winced, withdrawing his fingers. A pinprick of red was beginning to form on the tip of his pinkie. "God, what on earth were you _doing_?"

"I was… I…" Roxas began, turning to face his unwelcome intruder.

There was not even the slightest possibility that Sora could've missedhim upon entering the room – the thing was too large, too tall, too gangly. Too _inhuman_. So, logically, the brunet should've got a good eyeful of evil monster from the darkest reaches of hell and ran for the hills, shouting and screaming…

But he didn't.

"Roxas? Roxas?" Sora inquired, more softly now. Without a sound, he allowed his hands to fall to Roxas' shoulders. Kneeling down (probably not the smartest thing to do, considering), the boy blinked winsomely up at his brother, attempting to gauge his emotions with a wide, blue-eyed stare. "What's wrong?"

Well, that was a tough question. Where could he _begin _with something like that? Hell, his run of luck over the past few days had been so miserable, where would the sad story end? Would it ever? It would have taken days, certainly – perhaps weeks – to ever describe even a small fraction of 'what was wrong'.

"Kekekekekeke…"

And that laugh just happened to make up a good ninety percent of it.

But…

But Sora didn't seem able to _see_ him.

Suddenly, the creature's words didn't sound too impossible after all… With a frown, Roxas began to replay their conversation; "_No. You can't see me. Nobody can…" _Did this mean Roxas wasn't meant to see him either?

But he could.

And Sora, apparently, could not.

Roxas frowned at this revelation and bit his lower lip, contemplating.

Sora, however, seemed to take his silence for a refusal – a refusal to answer. Truth be told, Roxas was trying with all his might to come up with a logical reply, but none of this _wa_s logical; suicide – thunder – monster – razorblade – the razorblade went right _through _him – laughter – shampoo – explosion - Sora… Fear. Sora was afraid.

It made his head hurt.

The brunet sighed, noting a pained expression flit about Roxas' face. Too late, the boy tried to hide it, but the damage was done. Sora had already let his hands fall, voice melancholy as he said – "Look… If this has anything to do with Olette, Roxas…"

The blond stiffened.

He was suddenly, _painfully _aware of the blood on his wrist, of the razorblade on the floor, of the broken bottle and spilt shampoo… Sora's voice was kind, yes, but Roxas knew better to trust in kindness, and the underlying theme ran deeper than that.

Sora's voice was, in essence, _sympathetic_ - the same tones (the very same ones) you adopt with somebody in an asylum who still believes in Wonderland and talking cats, evil queens and hedgehog croquet.

His brother thought he was crazy.

His own _brother _thought he, _Roxas_, was crazy.

This was… Well, for lack of a better phrasing, most definitely 'not good'. In fact, it had just about crossed the line dividing 'not good' with 'plain catastrophic', and was already making a dash for the 'end of the world, kill me now' marker.

Unable to explain his own actions, Sora had decided to do it for him. Thus, Olette became the scapegoat. Sora wanted to place all his misgivings in someone else because he was scared – oh so _scared_ – that the person to blame may have been Roxas himself. That the poor boy had finally snapped…

Roxas didn't blame the boy. He knew if _he'd _walked in on Sora, shouting at thin air and covered in blood, his mind would've immediately jumped to the same conclusion.

And he'd probably have been less nice about it, too.

But Roxas _wasn't_ crazy.

He knew damn well just who – or _what _– was responsible for all this. The problem was that he couldn't tell Sora, because the root of his trouble appeared to be invisible. Attempting to point the finger of blame at a creature who, for all of Sora knew, wasn't there, would not have helped in the slightest.

Most likely, it probably would've made it worse.

Shooting a very nasty glare at the monster (it was all his fault, of that much the boy was certain), Roxas hastily attempted to fabricate a lie that would save his skin.

"It was… It… There was a _huge _spider!" the blond lied wildly, this untruth prompting a raised eyebrow from the monster. Sora seemed not to notice the implausibility of his tale, however, so the blond pressed on. Well, what with all his limbs and the like, the red-head did make a very good insect – scuttling around in the dark, looking for prey. "It made me jump, and I dropped the blade and it hit the back of the wall. When that shampoo bottle exploded, I guess I got caught on some of the glass. I'm sorry – I should go clean it up, it was my fau-"

"Oh no!" Sora interrupted, shooing Roxas onto the edge of the bathtub. "If you… If you're really hurt, you should sit there and I'll clean up."

"Thank you, Sora. I knew you'd understand."

The brunet turned and flashing a winning smile, no doubt placated with the boy's tale. Funnily enough, he hadn't even bothered to ask _why_ Roxas had had cause to hold a razorblade to begin with, nor why he jumped at the sight of a mere spider. If anything, _Sora _was the one who ran away screaming at the sight of organisms with more than four legs.

That was not to say that Roxas wished for the boy to pick holes in his excuse – it certainly made everything easier – but…

Humans really were sad creatures; the blond could not help but muse. Sora was too trusting for his own good, his love of Roxas able to overcome any flaws in the alibi because, to Sora, it _wasn't _an alibi.

Yes, Roxas decided, nodding his head slowly so as to cement his theory. The moment the words 'it was a spider' had graced his lips to Sora, all common sense had gone out the window. That was the truth now. In the brunet's eyes, at any rate.

Roxas had seen a spider and it made him jump.

Roxas had certainly _not _been about to commit suicide, but was interrupted by a ghostly figure from what seemed to be another world.

Sora had been so worried over Roxas' welfare that he would've accepted any explanation – absolutely _any_ – as long as he could see the proof himself. Spiders existed, and the bottle had certainly been smashed, so…

So what reason did he have to doubt the excuse?

Love really was a strange thing.

It blinded you to the bigger picture, put thoughts in your head that normally would not have come to surface, made you do and say and think stupid things…

(_Olette had left a beautiful corpse…_

_Would he?_)

The boy could not suppress a shudder, wrist up-turned in his lap and drenched with crimson… That cut looked pretty deep, but not as deep as the thoughts swirling about his head.

Love had nearly killed him.

Yet, funnily enough, Roxas could've sworn he'd never even loved Olette to begin with.

* * *

"I don't like this place," Rikku sniffed, eyes narrowed. Her nostrils were currently being assaulted by a vast plethora of smells – fire, brimstone, death, destruction, etc – yet the main aroma underlying it all was that of decaying flesh, maggot-ridden and dusted with flies.

_Well,_ Rikku thought, _given the nobodies and their general disregard for personal hygiene, this shouldn't be too surprising. Realm of eternal suffering and all. Sort of like hell, really, but more..._

_More _boring.

"Urgh…" the blonde moaned once more, nimbly skirting a picturesque stack of sun-baked bodies. "This place is disgusting. They should put up signs or something…"

Heaven was not a place that acclimatised you to god-awful smells. Everything was white and clinical and squeaky-clean, so much so that you could probably see your own reflection in the dirt. The faint aroma of sugar and other such saccharine things was the only smell Rikku knew. Well, that and washing up liquid.

"Nobody likes this place," Paine sniffed, as though this much were obvious. "Not even the residents."

"Hmn. Nobodies have really sucky interior decorating skills. Wonder what catalogue they order all this from," the blonde sprite rolled her eyes, ducking slightly so as to avoid yet another pretty stack of rotting corpses. "Oh, for goodness sake. Not even my _kitchen_ looks as bad as this!"

"Yeah – I've seen your kitchen look worse! Hehe!" the newest faerie giggled – Yuna of the Gullwings, third point to the triangle and final addition to the trio. Choppy brown hair, mismatched eyes and an unwavering resolve. The self-elected 'leader'.

"Hey! Nobody mocks my cooking!"

"Oops! I guess I just did!" Yuna replied, flitting around a rather twisted tree that bore no fruit. Well, if charred hunks of ash counted as _fruit_…

"Knowing this place, s'probably the nicest grub they've got around here," Rikku sighed, expression almost as distasteful as the food surely would be. Rikku didn't want to take her chances, either way.

"Imagine. No Belgian chocolate," Yuna couldn't help but tease, circling round the tree. "Hmph. No, no, no. This really won't do at all." And, with a deft flick of her wrist, a large crop of red and green apples started to flower from the branches. The skins were dappled under the dying sun, glowing with an almost ethereal light – round, crunchy and juicy, they almost seemed to mock their surroundings simply by _being_. "Much better!"

"The nobodies don't like it when you do that," Paine said, voice cold. "They've pondered shipping a crate of carcasses up your front door for an April Fool's. I believe a serious meeting was called on the matter."

"Ahhh. Screw'em," Rikku muttered, half-way through a mouthful of apple core. "Miserable gits."

"Miserable gits? That's hardly polite for a lady of your calibre. I'm ashamed."

"Ah-uhh… Ack!" Rikku jumped, as though on the receiving end of an electric shock. Her half-eaten apple dropped to the floor, face just as red, cheeks bright and rosy. Perhaps it was the embarrassment.

Or maybe it was because she was choking.

Paine, being Paine, decided to let the girl cough and hack until pity finally won the sprite over. With a few pats to her back (that were probably a lot harder than necessary), the stray bits of fruit were dislodged Rikku's throat.

"Eww…" the sprite frowned, wiping her mouth free of apple-flavoured spit. "Choking. S'not fun. Blech." And then, almost as an afterthought… "How long were you hidin' there, anyway?"

"I wasn't hiding. I was sitting," Naminé replied simply, a small smile adorning her face. Sketchbook in her lap, back pressed against the tree, the nobody deigned to turn ever so slightly in Yuna's direction. "So. For what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Trouble," was Paine's simple reply.

"Ah," Naminé sighed, nodding slightly in understanding. With a deft movement of one arm, a rogue, free-falling apple was snatched most gracefully from thin air and brought to her lips. There she chewed, seeming rather pensive about just what sort of bad news this 'trouble' entailed. "I suppose this is related to the affairs of the human world?"

"Duh. Anythin' tha' goes wrong c'n be traced back to 'em eventually. Idiots," Rikku declared, teeth working against yet another mouthful of apple. When Paine cast her an annoyed glare ("I'm letting you choke next time") the girl merely frowned, swallowed and stuck out her tongue. "What-everrrr, Paine. I'm hungry. And I wouldn't be if you hadn't destroyed my sandwich. Mmmmnn… Apples…"

"What do you require of my realm, then?" Naminé continued, seeming unfazed by Paine and Rikku's numerous idiosyncrasies. "I suppose the atmosphere is not suited to your likings…?"

"Damn straight. You should see my _kitchen_," Rikku nodded enthusiastically, stuffing the core into her mouth. Within three chomps or less it was decimated, the girl carefully selecting another before subjecting it to the same fate.

"Oh, Rikku," Naminé smiled, idly caressing the skin of her apple with long, slow licks. She'd barely even broken the skin yet save for her first cursory bite, whereas the sprite was on her second… Third… Fourth apple? For such a tiny thing, she sure could _eat. _"Only you would ask for a kitchen when you got to heaven."

"Rather. She could've asked for something useful, like a brain."

"Oi! I dih'unt ask you, Paine!" the blonde frowned, core pinched between her fingers. She seemed to deliberate over throwing said core at her companion or not but, after a few seconds, decided against it. "Waste o' good food," she mumbled, before popping that into her mouth as well.

Whole.

Paine suppressed a shudder.

"Hey, guys," Yuna hummed, rocking back and forth in a rather distracted way. "We're not going to get _anywhere_ if you keep messing around. Remember – we gotta find that kid. It is of the upmost importance."

"Yes, Yuna," Paine replied, voice sombre. "I'm sorry."

Rikku, on the other hand, seemed rather unperturbed. Rather, she giggled and went "Sure thing, Yunie!", voice garbled by all the food she was stuffing in there.

"Alright," the brunette nodded, looking from Paine to Rikku (who was still diligently trying to strip the tree of apples – two in each hand, one in her mouth and several others floating along beside her as though enchanted). "Paine, you go and scan the human world by the west portal. Rikku, cover the east. I'll go south. And Naminé?"

"Hmn?" the nobody inquired sweetly, head tilted to one side.

"Would you mind staying here and checking out the north?"

"Oh – I don't see why not, I s'pose," the girl shrugged, proffering her half-eaten apple to Rikku. Needless to say, the sprite took it gleefully, almost as though it were some kind of wonderful drug. "Though, I feel I must ask – please excuse my curiosity. Just what are you looking for so very urgently?"

"Ahhh. S'nothing," Yuna shrugged, waving the question aside. "Just, you know. Some kid called Roxas, I guess."

* * *

When Axel had first realised Roxas could see him, it was surprise that kindled in his mind. Surprise, then denial. No, no, no, it was all illogical; of _course _the boy couldn't see him. He was obviously lying.

And yet… Why would he?

Axel was just a little shocked, was all. It was a common rule that nobodies were not visible to humans unless said human was a seer, and Axel was pretty sure Roxas didn't fit that description.

In fact, he was absolutely _certain_.

The current seer's name began with an R, yes, but that was… That was Larxene's boy, wasn't it? The stoic teenager with silver hair and the superiority complex.

_Riku._

And so, if one was to assume that nobodies were visible only to seers, and that Roxas was _not _a seer, it was then only logical to draw from that a single conclusion. Namely, Roxas could not see Axel.

However, the little razorblade stunt begged to differ. The very moment the sleek, cool metal had scythed through his forehead, the nobody had realised there was something was very, _very _wrong about the current scenario.

Roxas could, indeed, see him.

And, when Axel paused to think it through more carefully, the boy seemed quite fit and healthy despite his near-death experience and the sudden revelation that his new 'friend' might, perhaps, be from another world…

That brought about a completely new series of questions, that did, each more complex and confusing that the last. Fortunately, Axel was able to compound all his thoughts into a single question; _why wasn't Roxas dead?_

He should've been dead.

But, and there was no denying this…

Roxas was very much alive.

That much was obvious by the way he was currently sprawled across his bed, wrist all bandaged up under the pretence it had been cut by that exploding bottle and eyes wide in confusion. His chest rose and fell, breath coming out in short bursts – maybe his chest hurt a bit and he had the beginnings of a headache, true, but he was not dead.

But that wasn't possible… Nobody survived once their fate had been decided. Nobody survived once their name had been written down. Nobody survived…

_Nobody._

Hmn…

"So…" the blond boy frowned; at this facial expression, Axel became alarmingly well aware of all the questions that were, doubtlessly, marching single-file in the general direction of this conversation. "What are you?"

"Your worst nightmare," Axel replied flippantly, leaning back against Roxas' swivel chair and examining his nails.

"Ha ha. Very funny," the blond said, careful to keep his voice down for fear of alerting his brother – Sora, wasn't it? The brunet had visited Roxas no less than six times during the night, using a glass of water and the "I thought you might be thirsty" excuse for a chance to gauge if his brother was going to flip and break stuff again.

Perhaps he had not been quite as consoled by that lame excuse as Roxas liked to think.

"I know. I _am_ funny, aren't I?" Axel said, starting to spin absent-mindedly on the boy's chair. Maybe, if he pushed off against the floor really hard, he could get in about fifteen good revolutions before the forces of nature worked against him…? It was always worth a try...

"No," Roxas said, voice dispondant and completely emotionless.

Well, _ha_ – wasn't Axel meant to be the heartless one here?

God damn, the kid was _cold._

Well, Axel _had_ very nearly killed him, even though the blond was unaware of that little detail. Maybe he should cut the kid some slack. Dying wasn't very fun, even when the job was botched and you only got half-way there.

Half-way dead.

"So. What _are_ you?"

There was a pause, during which Axel kicked off against the floor for a grand total of twenty-two spins, eyes partially closed as though in a state of complete and utter zen.

_The weirdo looks like he's never seen a swivel chair before_, Roxas mused. He had half a mind to order him off it (although he rather doubted the monster would pay him much heed anyway), but... But that look of bliss upon his face seemed to suggest that no, he really hadn't seen a swivel chair before. Much less sat on one.

"Axel," the nobody muttered lazily, knowing full well that the boy couldn't keep referring to him as 'the monster'. At any rate, it was demeaning. He _had_ a name.

A perfectly good one, too.

"_What_? 'Axel'…?" the boy repeated, seeing confused.

"Axel. My name. Got it memorised?"

"My mental capacity _is _higher than a thankful of dead goldfish, thank you," Roxas murmured in exasperation, no doubt irked by the catchphrase.

Axel didn't really care – it was a saying that had evolved with no other purpose _than _to annoy people. Saïx in particular. Roxas, however, would be a fair substitute; _especially_ if he allowed his buttons to get pushed.

Which it looked like he _did_.

The nobody allowed himself a smirk, steadying his chair with one foot.

"Of course you do."

"You still haven't told me why you're here… _Axel_," Roxas hissed, folding his arms in a gesture reminiscent of a petulant child.

Well, Roxas wasn't that old himself.

Not as old as Axel, anyway.

"I should think it would be fairly obvious to somebody of your high intelligence… _Roxas_," Axel replied, allowing himself to stress the boy's name just as he had done mere seconds ago. "I was going to kill you."

"_Kill me_?"

"Yep," he grinned lazily, spinning round the room once more. Snatches of colour caught his eye – posters, wallpaper, a TV, notice board – but he didn't really focus on any of it. "I guess I'm like Yama… Morana… Kali… A Death God… Whatever. They're all perfectly good words. Take your pick."

Roxas' eyes seemed to widen further at this, digesting the information slowly with an air of disbelief on his face.

Well, it was a lot to take in.

Anybody would be surprised.

Awaiting his response with no real anticipation (he could already guess what was going to happen, anyway), the red-head contented himself with wheeling the chair over to a rather inconspicuous-looking bookcase, fingers sliding along the spines of textbooks, fantasy novels, magazine covers and…

A ha.

"Bit dirty, isn't it?" the nobody inquired sweetly, holding up his find as though it were the most valuable of solid-gold treasure. "Hmn… I never knew human girls looked so _blobby _without their clothes on… Is that position even _possible_?!"

Roxas' face flushed a delicate pink, eyes narrowing slightly to accommodate for his anger. He didn't like people being in his room at the best of times, especially not bored death gods who'd obviously never heard of the word 'tact'. Nor 'manners', come to think of it.

"Excuse me, do you mind?"

"Not really, no."

"God-" Roxas began, ready to launch into a gargantuan moan about the tactless nobody…

That is to say, he _would've _done if aforementioned tactless nobody hadn't beaten him to it.

"_Death_ God," Axel idly corrected, flying backwards across the room in his nifty little chair. There was a dull thunk, a crunch, and he suddenly found his movement impeded by a thick, solid wall. Seeming unperturbed by this, the nobody merely lifted Roxas' magazine and began to read.

Human entertainment.

How droll.

"You know, you're acting pretty damn childish for a supposed 'God of Death'," Roxas snorted, taking his two index fingers and curving them over to create visible quotation marks.

'God of Death' indeed.

"I've been killing humans for the past hundred – thousand… More like _millions _ofyears. Guy's gotta have a bit of fun. You wouldn't begrudge me that, would you?"

"Can't be a very good God of Death. In case you hadn't noticed, you _missed _me."

"Hmn. Yes," Axel muttered, shutting the rather glossy, tasteless magazine at Roxas' blunt statement. "I have been wondering about that myself. You see – the truth is, I was sent to kill you. Commands from the very top, you know. The guy who pulls all the strings. Oh no, not God," he suddenly stated, watching as Roxas' mouth fell open, doubtless to ask more questions about the big man himself. "The ruler of _my _realm, at any rate. God doesn't like us very much. Tries to keep his distance. As do most people, actually."

"You mean… Heaven and hell actually _exist_?" the blond asked, looking intrigued despite himself. He even leant forwards slightly, as though he were a child receiving a bedtime story. "I always thought that was a lie created by my Sunday School teacher… Are you serious?"

"I wouldn't have mentioned it if I wasn't," Axel replied, snorting at the blond's enthusiasm. "So, _anyway._ Our leader sends me down on this mission. Which is, obviously, killing you."

"They created a whole _mission _in my honour?"

"Hey," Axel began to laugh, bonking Roxas upside the head with his rolled-up magazine. "Way to get a swelled ego, kid."

"M'not a _kid_!" Roxas replied indignantly, attempting to swat Axel's claw-like fingers away.

This prompted yet more laughs from the nobody, deciding to save his wrath for later. "Of course not, shortie. So, I go down to the human world, right? I sit down on a lamppost and wait until the moment it says you'll die – predetermined time, you know. And as soon as it passed, I decided to, you know. Go in. Have a look."

"Nosy, then?"

"No. Just curious."

"Axel. Those things are one and the same."

"Perhaps for you _humans_. Gods get special privileges," the red-head snorted, retreating back to the safe confines of his swivel chair – one spin, two spin, three spin. What fun. "Sooo. So, so, so.

"I go into the bathroom, and… And I'm very surprised, because you're not dead. And you should be dead. But you're not. And that means I can't go back to my realm. Because you're not dead. And you're meant to be. Very, very dead. So I suppose I've got to wait until something _else _comes along and tries to wipe you out. But… But it's pretty strange, don't you think?"

"Why…? Has it never happened before?"

"You could say that," Axel smirked; face dominated once more by that lop-sided grin. "It's a common saying in our realm, you know. You want to know what that saying is?"

Roxas nodded, eager in his pursuit for knowledge.

This had been _most _enlightening.

"The only thing that can cheat death… Is death itself."

* * *

**a.n: holy hell. this was nearly 30 pages long. and… ten thousand words long oO anyway, i think some of it seems pretty rushed so i might change it later. i just really wanted this chapter up because i'm going away on holiday in like… one hour. ANY-way, hope you liked it :D sorry for the lack of riku, & the distinct lack of fluff. it will come… **


End file.
